The Greater Good, or the Lesser Evil
by LadyRhiyana
Summary: COMPLETE. Set after the Bastard Malfoy. The Dark Lord has returned, and Slytherin politics turn deadly. Sometimes there's no right or wrong, and the only choice is between two evils...
1. The Hogwarts Express

Disclaimer – I don't own Harry Potter. I got the idea of Aurors in navy robes from Lady Erised. The de Sauvigny are mine, and so is Luc. 

CHAPTER 1 - THE HOGWARTS EXPRESS  
  


  
Platform 9¾, in September 1995, Harry Potter's fifth year, was just as crowded, just as busy as it had been in former years - only, after the events of last year's Triwizard Tournament, it was a little more subdued, the gaiety a little forced, and navy blue robes showed where aurors patrolled the crowds, on the alert for any signs of trouble or Death Eaters.  
  


He'd come with the Weasleys again, after spending the long, guilt-wracked summer with them, struggling to understand that it hadn't been his fault Cedric had died, that the blame lay entirely at Voldemort's feet, and nowhere else. Intellectually, he could accept that now - but in his heart, he still felt responsible. He doubted that would ever change - he would carry Cedric's ghost around with him for the rest of his life.  
  
But Harry deliberately shook his head, took a deep breath, and willed the phantoms away. He was going back to Hogwarts, and he was not going to let Voldemort ruin his life.  
  
******************************  
  


There were many familiar faces on the train now, as well as the new, innocent faces of this year's First year students - as Harry, Ron and Hermione made their way through the corridors, making for an empty compartment, they greeted their old acquaintances warmly. There were no empty compartments, because they had been too busy talking to rush to find one, so they settled on a compartment occupied by Nick de Sauvigny, a Slytherin boy in their year who had never really caused them much trouble.  
  
He was playing wizarding chess with another person - a man, in his thirties, wearing expensive black robes with careless style, who looked up at their entry. On first glance, the resemblance between Nick and the stranger was startling - both were black haired, with grey eyes, but the man's eyes were almost silver, and Nick's were blue-grey. The resemblance was in their features; in the way they held their heads, in the shape of their eyes.  
  
Nick took in their hesitation, smiled crookedly and carelessly waved his hand. "Potter. Weasley. Granger." He nodded at them absently, and then indicated the man. "My elder brother, Luc. He's the tai-pan, the lord of the de Sauvigny." Amused grey eyes assessed them, and the man nodded in greeting. Well trained and mannered, the trio nodded in return, murmuring "Sir."  
  
They came in and sat down, then watched as Nick got trounced mercilessly at chess. With a sigh, he conceded the game, and then tipped his king over, ignoring the defeated looks on his chess pieces. Ron, who had been holding his surprise back ever since he sat down, finally couldn't contain himself any longer. "What's going on, de Sauvigny?" Nick looked over at him, eyebrow raised. The man - Luc - also turned his head, his face impassive. Ron continued. "Aren't you supposed to be terrorizing the first years?"  
  
Nick was Draco's chief lieutenant - not a bodyguard, like Crabbe and Goyle, but his right hand, a partner in crime and plotting. The fact that he was more approachable than most of the other Slytherins, mainly because his cousin Marc was in Gryffindor, didn't stop him from being a diabolical schemer.  
  
Nick smiled in amusement. "Draco can handle himself well enough without me for this journey," he said. "At the moment, I'm looking after Luc."  
  
The man himself smiled sardonically. Harry could follow the joke - he didn't look like he needed help from anybody. In fact, he looked like he could take on anything the world threw at him, and come out perfectly composed and groomed, with robes still perfectly arranged. The man reminded him of the muggle spy, James Bond - he had the same cool sangfroid.  
  
"Don't worry about Draco coming after Nick, Mr. Weasley. You're all safe here, with me." Luc's voice was smooth, confident and rich with old money, upper class and power.  
  
"You don't like Malfoy, sir?" Hermione spoke up earnestly, eager to gain an ally against their nemesis.  
  
He didn't get a chance to answer, because just then the door slid open and Marc de Sauvigny, Nick's Gryffindor cousin entered. He was in their year, and a Chaser on the Quidditch team, and a good companion, but he was not as close to them as the other Gryffindor boys were - in fact, there were times he seemed to be closer to Malfoy and his cousin than he was to his own Housemates.  
  
But then he was High Clan - and they tended to stick together.  
  
Flopping down on the seat, Marc avoided Luc's mildly disapproving eye and smiled brilliantly at everyone in the compartment. When he chose to exert it, Marc had a warm, compelling charisma - others wanted to be the focus of that warm smile, to see approval in those dark blue eyes. It had no discernable effect on his cousins. Oblivious, he only made himself comfortable and looked limpidly at Luc. "Malfoy is behaving himself. I wanted to know why - what was going on that he thought it necessary to contain himself to glares only."  
  
Luc gazed back just as limpidly. "I told him to act like the High Clan aristocrat I knew him to be - at least while I was around." Looking at his face, at the aristocratic, elegant features and the cool silver eyes, Harry suddenly realized that Luc looked far more like Malfoy than Nick, only the different colouring had thrown him off.  
  
He had just opened his mouth to blurt out something no doubt stupid, when the door opened again, and Draco Malfoy himself came in - not hesitantly, like Marc, but with a careless confidence that bordered on arrogance. With him came the ever-present Crabbe and Goyle, looming behind him like sentinels, but their bravado wilted a little when Luc's mild silver eyes drifted over them. Draco held it confidently, without any insolence or defiance, but even he seemed to shift a little under that gaze.  
  
"Hello Draco, Vincent, Gregory. Please, do come in and sit down." Luc's voice was soft, but held a commanding edge - the three boys came in, and sat down.  
  
Harry thought of once again asking Luc's relationship to Draco, but thought it wouldn't be too tactful, just now. Instead, he settled further into his seat and tried to ignore Crabbe and Goyle's stares.  
  
Draco was talking with Luc. "There are Aurors on the train," said the blonde haired boy. Luc only raised an eyebrow, indicating that he already knew that. Draco continued. "But their faces are shadowed by their hoods," he said softly, intently, "and they have stationed themselves at every exit on every carriage."  
  
Luc's face didn't change, but there was an air of...alertness to him now, of readiness. Nick and Marc, alerted by some instinct, had leaned forward and watching him intently. Crabbe and Goyle, picking up on the tension although Draco and Luc hadn't done anything yet, leaned forward too. Hermione was watching them, frowning with narrowed eyes, obviously thinking hard. Ron just looked puzzled, but he knew something was wrong - and Harry suddenly had a very bad feeling about this.  
  
"How many of them are there?" Luc's voice had gone soft, implacable and his eyes were cold, flat, and ruthless.  
  
"Twenty - two on every carriage, one at the front and the other at the end."  
  
Harry's breath hissed in shock - Death Eaters, on the Hogwarts Express. There was supposed to be an auror escort - they had all known that, it had been widely publicized the previous week - but evidently, others had known that, and had taken advantage of it. Harry spared a thought for the twenty dead Aurors, but he was more interested in how they were going to get out of this alive.  
  
****************************  
  
Lucien Malfoy, this year's DADA teacher, cursed viciously in his head.  
  
Death Eaters on the Hogwarts Express - eight hundred students, ranging from eleven to seventeen, most of them innocent and unprepared for any violence or attacks. Their Defense classes had been woefully inadequate - most of them would have no idea how to defend themselves against any kind of magic at all, let alone Death Eaters intent on massacre.  
  
And he was the only thing that stood between them and the Death Eaters.  
  
Adrenaline had always done curious things to his mind - slowing it down, sheathing his thought processes with cold logic, allowing him to think clearly in incredibly tense situations. It had been a gift, in his younger days, when he'd needed it - it had kept him alive more than once, and earned him the reputation of having ice water in his veins, instead of blood. He'd thought, after Voldemort was defeated, that he would be able to put away that part of his personality - until last year, when he'd been confronted with absolute proof of the Dark Lord's return.  
  
His Dark Mark had started to burn.  
  
At the time, he'd thought he had plenty of time to decide whether to return to the Dark Lord with all the power and resources of the House, one of the largest trading houses in the wizarding world, under his control, or to refuse the call and to put his whole family and everything he'd worked for since childhood at risk.  
  
But now it seemed that his hand had been forced.  
  
The students, or his own safety?  
  
There was no question, really, not with Nick, Marc and Draco on board the train - Nick and Marc were his wards, he'd been their legal guardian since he'd taken over the House and gotten rid of their parents in the process. And Draco - Draco was his nephew, his brother Lucius' son, and the next Lord Malfoy - and as such, considering Narcissa's barrenness, he was irreplaceable. After all the effort Luc had put into trying to keep him away from Voldemort and the Dark side, he was not going to lose him now.  
  
It seemed he had no choice - he would have to fight.  
  
Twenty Death Eaters against himself and any help he might get from the students. It was a good thing that once a Slytherin decided, after exhausting all other options, to do something foolish, impulsive and insanely reckless, they didn't let anything, not even overwhelming odds, stand in their way. Otherwise Luc might have been worried.  
  
*********************************** 

A/N – To those who have read "The Stolen Generation" and "The Witch Hunt", this story is set in a different timeline – ie, Luc is the same age as Lucius, and consequently made different life choices.

  
  



	2. Desperate Measures

Disclaimer – I don't own Harry Potter. Don't sue me.

  
CHAPTER 2 - DESPERATE MEASURES  
  


  
Draco, Nick and Marc, who had more or less grown up together, under Luc's care, knew when something was worrying Luc. And judging by the cold impassivity of his features now, he was feeling decidedly grim.  
  
They also knew that with twenty Death Eaters on the train, there was very little chance that all of the students would come out of this unscathed and unharmed - in fact, it was far more probable that they would all die - unless they had parents in the Death Eaters, in which case they would be taken and inducted into Voldemort's service.  
  


Draco didn't want that, but he couldn't speak for some of the other students - Crabbe and Goyle especially. They were supposed to be loyal to him, but at the slightest sign that he would be less than loyal to Voldemort, they would turn on him and destroy him, if he let them. Voldemort's supporters among the students made a very dangerous situation even worse - and Draco was sure that Luc knew that, and had taken it into account. Inside, in his heart, he had the utmost faith that his uncle could do anything; even get them out of this. But logically, he knew that there was very little chance. All he could do was put his faith in Luc.  
  
******************************  
  
With a cool, intense, clear voice Luc took control of the situation. "Draco, call for help." He waved his hand, and a fire appeared - he held out a twist of floo powder. "The rest of you," he indicated Nick, Marc, Harry Ron and Hermione, "come with me." Standing up, he peeked outside, watching the navy-robed figures, one at the entrance to the next carriage, and one at the door to the driver's compartment.  
  
They stood still and silent, simply watching, but there was a palpable air of tension around them, as if they waited for a signal to attack. So if he could get rid of them before the signal, then perhaps they stood a chance of saving the other carriages...he would have to take then down silently, to keep the advantage of surprise.  
  
And that meant quickly, efficiently, and without any noise. He'd have to use the Killing Curse, no matter that he preferred almost anything else. It was the best way. Calling on all the strength and agility he'd had fifteen years ago, he kicked in the door, so that it swung out into the corridor, blocking one Death Eater's curse, and rolled into the hallway, throwing a killing curse at the one at the other end. There was a flash of green light as the Death Eater died, and immediately Luc rolled away from the door, just avoiding the vicious explosion as it blew apart. Cursing, he dodged a beam of green light and threw one of his own, suppressing the noise of the explosion and throwing another curse out, this one succeeding because dodging the first curse had bought the Death Eater straight into the path of his second one.  
  
And then, standing poised on his feet, he surveyed the damage, ignoring the screaming children around him, automatically soundproofing the carriage. They were both dead, and he had managed to keep the noise from the other carriages.  
  
The trio came out of their compartment where he had left them, Harry Potter's eyes grim, the girl's eyes inquisitive, and Ron Weasley's eyes wide with almost awe.  
  
"Wicked," he breathed. "You didn't even use a wand." Luc's smile turned distinctly sardonic. No, he didn't use a wand - his wand technique, such as it was, made using it less than useless for anything that required quick results. He'd never managed to learn to use a wand quickly - it was the only area of his education he'd never excelled at. Flitwick had called it a mental block - don't worry, my boy, it's quite natural, happens sometimes to others, but mostly in other areas of magic...  
  
Luckily, he could fall back on his talent for wandless magic, which he could use quickly and well. As a result, he very rarely ever used his wand, preferring to rely mostly on the wandless, inborn magic of the Malfoy. Even the meanest almost-squib could use their wands, and he, a scion of the oldest of the High Clan Houses, couldn't use it for what it was really needed. It was galling, and it had never ceased to gall.  
  
Calming the children down, he picked three of them to go with him, into the next carriage to warn the others. Hopefully the Death Eaters in the next carriage had no suspicions that their ambush had been found out - if he went in, disguised by illusion, he should be able to go through the whole train, warn every carriage, and perhaps even co-ordinate a resistance. But no matter how good he was, he was only one man. He needed backup. And that was where he was relying on Draco to be able to anticipate his needs and understand the situation.  
  
Hopefully, Draco had summoned the Nine.  
  
Nine elite handpicked warriors, born and bred beyond the Veil, in the Malfoy lands separated from the rest of the world by Brandon Malfoy's last enchantment. They were completely, utterly loyal to House Malfoy and the people who sheltered under their protection - they played bodyguard, defender and protector to every direct scion of the blood. They could be called, through fire or water or the air. And if all things were going well for Luc today, they would realize the urgency of Draco's Call, and all nine of them would come.  
  
Otherwise they were all dead.  
  
*******************************  
  
In the London Headquarters of the Aurors Corps, a lean, hard eyed veteran lounged in his chair, feet propped on the desk, and stared absently out of the window. He was dark haired and dark eyed, with a quick, agile strength and a quick, agile mind - both of them assets which had seen him rise high in the Corps. He should have been concentrating on his latest case, the sudden reappearance of the Dark Mark above Hogwarts and the World Cup - but instead, he found himself more and more distracted, a tickling on the edge of his mind demanding his attention.  
  
He knew the feel of that mind, of that magic, of that Call.  
  
Abruptly righting himself, he stood up and pushed away from the desk, leaving everything exactly where and as it was, and walked out, striding quickly towards the apparition point, focused entirely on answering the Call. On his way he fell into step with a man in conservative, unassuming clothes, the very epitome of a mid-level office worker in an anonymous Ministry department, and acknowledged him with a little nod.  
  
Another man, looking up as they passed through the department controlled by Lucius Malfoy, sustained eye contact, passing along a message, before dropping his eyes and any impression of fierce, controlled focus that might have been given.  
  
He would stay, to protect the Lord.  
  
Wasting no time, the Auror and the office worker apparated together - they'd both heard the desperation in the Call, and hoped they wouldn't be too late.  
  
In Wales, in the green, silent and ancient land Beyond the Veil, three men strode in from different directions - one from each of the three villages on the estate - and gathered at the Castle, the ancestral home of House Malfoy. They had come immediately on hearing the Call, dropping everything to answer it - one had been in the local tavern, having a sociable chat; he'd simply drained his ale and, without a word, walked out - one had been working in the fields, bringing the harvest in, and was still faintly sweaty and covered in wheat chaff. The other had been in the woods, hunting - he still had his longbow slung over his shoulder, and was dressed in camouflaged hunting leathers.  
  
Without a word, they apparated in the direction of the Call.  
  
In Hogsmeade, a man got up off his stool in the Three Broomsticks and walked outside without a word. The locals took no notice - they were used to his curious behaviour. He'd come to Hogsmeade about five years ago, when Harry Potter had first started at Hogwarts, and had hung around ever since, disappearing occasionally, but causing no trouble and always paying his tab. Whatever was such an urgent matter to him was no business of theirs. They took no notice of the two other men who followed him out, and later apparated with him.  
  
********************************  
  
Most people, when they apparated, made an audible "pop" sound - it usually gave a split second's warning, and in some situations, that warning could be the difference between life and death. Certainly, the sound had saved more than one Auror's or Death Eater's life - until one of Voldemort's top assassins had begun to teach the other Death Eaters the art of silent apparition.

  
Then, things had begun to change, and not for the better, in the Ministry's eyes.  
  
Luc had originally been taught the method by one of the Nine - it was an ancient technique, not much used these days because of the amount of discipline needed to master it. Any fool could apparate, but it took real skill and discipline to do it silently. So the simultaneous, soundless apparition of eight men into the first carriage surprised everyone, including Draco and the two de Sauvigny boys, who had been waiting for it. They were perhaps the only ones who had the knowledge to understand what a feat it was - all the other students were too stunned.  
  
After the explanations had been conducted, the eight men stood up and went into the corridor, eyes noting everything, moving with the kind of smooth, animal grace that went hand in hand with lethal skill. More students than the previous three had the knowledge to appreciate that.  
  
Very soon, as though he had known of their arrival, Luc stepped back into the carriage, shedding the illusion of fair, sandy hair, blue eyes and sixteen year old features. It was an eerie effect, seeing the open, innocent and friendly face dissolve and change into sculpted, aristocratic features imbued with cool, impassive intelligence. The cheerful, laughing blue eyes faded into sardonic, watchful silver ones, and his whole body language and posture went from the lanky, slightly awkward stance of an adolescent not yet used to his growing body to the complete physical confidence and control of a fully adult, alpha male.  
Harry wondered at the skill needed to accurately pull of such a complete transformation - High Clan aristocrat to awkward teenager and back again without letting a single hint of the other form through while holding the role.  
  
He didn't look surprised to see only eight men here - he simply nodded and then started giving orders.  
  
Luc, the eight new arrivals and Harry, Ron and Hermione, Nick, Marc and Draco would be the leaders of the resistance in each carriage - Luc and the eight would each get a separate carriage, and the six students would stay in the first one, where the Death Eaters had already been killed, and co- ordinate the others, watching what was going on and relaying information and communications.  
  
At a pre-arranged signal, they would turn on the Death Eaters and take them out, hopefully before they could cause any damage or fatal injuries.  
  
That was the plan. But Harry had learned by now that hardly anything ever went to plan, so a backup was always needed.  
  
He made the mistake of asking Luc what plan B was.  
  
Luc had merely smiled - and Harry had not asked any more questions.  
  
He hadn't dared to.  
  
************************************  
  
All went well at first - the eight companions, cloaked in schoolboy illusions, had infiltrated each carriage and had warned the other students to be ready. They'd picked the right positions, sat down, and waited for the signal to attack.  
  
And then, just as Luc had reached the last carriage and was about to signal his readiness, disaster occurred, in the form of Trevor, Neville Longbottom's toad. As it had done the first year and all years since, Trevor had escaped from his cage and had taken off down the train. However, this time, it had stopped in the last carriage, and waited, shivering, until its master came and fetched it. As the train rounded a corner, Trevor lost his grip on the wall and came off, colliding with Luc's bare hands on his way to the floor.  
  
Toadskin nullified illusions.  
  
Watching in stunned disbelief as the previously innocuous student melted into a face the Death Eater knew very well, the Death Eater who was facing Luc panicked and pulled his wand, shooting off the Killing Curse at Luc, but his hands were shaking so much the curse went awry, striking the walls and ricocheting. The students ducked and screamed, the Death Eater tried again, and the one behind Luc caught on and drew his wand too.  
  
Luc swore, and spun around, long, vicious poison tipped knife in hand, and ripped his throat open.  
  
Alerted by the chaos in the other carriage, the Death Eaters in the ninth carriage looked in, and seeing Luc and the way he had dealt with one of their colleagues, joined in the fight, not noticing the pseudo student who came at their backs while they weren't watching. Things disintegrated after that - especially when what they had previously assumed were students turned out to be disguised Death Eaters - evidently Draco had missed them in his initial sweep. Outnumbered by more than two to one now, and with Death Eaters taking shots at students, they abandoned any pretence at secrecy or discretion.  
  
It became an all out battle - each one of them against at least three Death Eaters, trying to protect themselves and the students from ricochets as well as directly aimed curses, while trying to kill their opponents. The green glow of the Killing Curse seemed to permanently stain the air, and the smell and taste of various other curses and hexes was acrid on the back of Luc's tongue - the students were fighting back, but they hadn't been trained in real combat, didn't have the reflexes or the killing instinct.  
  
In his days as an assassin, Luc had occasionally made use of the muggle weapons called guns - he had never, in his whole life, seen a more efficient killing tool - not even the Killing Curse. Simply aim and pull the trigger - no need to face your opponent up close, to see the life leave their eyes and feel their life depart. And you could keep it up as long as your ammunition lasted, unlike the Killing Curse, which took a fair bit of energy to successfully perform. He wondered what that said about Muggles - whether they were really as harmless as some bleeding hearts claimed - guns, their technology, and what they called nuclear weapons...  
  
He had been both repelled and fascinated by his guns fifteen years ago, and had been more than happy to put them away for good - but now, he would welcome the weight of one, welcome the cold efficiency they could provide. But he had to make do with his own power - and while he was a very strong, powerful wizard, with an enormous personal well of magic to tap into, it was not endless, and killing was always harder than creating. Not even he could keep this up forever.  
  
Breathing deeply, senses expanded to slow down real time, to make everything unnaturally clear and precise, unnaturally detailed, he could hear his heartbeat echoing in his ears and could feel the rush of blood through his veins. He could follow the trail of spells as they left afterimages, streaks of light in his vision, and the empathic gift inherent in his ardeur allowed him to feel the pain every time a curse hit, every time a Death Eater or a student died.  
  
Time slowed, expanded, became infinite as he lost himself in the dance, as he spun and killed with either knife or magic. And his heartbeat, steady, smooth and precise through the action, although a little faster than usual, suddenly stopped as he heard a cry not with his ears, but with his ardeur.  
  
Draco.  
  
The Death Eaters had reached the first carriage.  
  
He dropped everything and ran.  
  
*********************************  
  
Draco had been the first to realise that something had gone wrong, had been the first to realise the monumental mistake he had made by assuming there were only twenty Death Eaters on the train. He'd been the first to realise that they'd broken through and were heading towards their carriage, towards the Boy who Lived and the Malfoy Heir. He had Harry had been the ones to assume leadership - the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws in the carriage would only listen to Harry, and the Slytherins followed only Draco. Putting aside their mutual antipathy, at least for now, they called a temporary truce and set about organising a defence.  
  
Blocking the door seemed to be a good idea - pushing as much as they could against the door to keep it closed, and adding all the warding and locking spells the combined students in the carriage knew, and a few other nasty ones for good measure. They herded all the younger students behind them, hiding and sheltering them, despite an anonymous Slytherin's remark that they would make effective curse fodder. Even Draco rounded on her for that.  
  
Draco, Nick and Hermione, who had read books detailing strategy and tactics in the original Latin and Greek and, in the case of Sun Tzu's "The Art of War", the original Chinese, had, cooperating reluctantly, worked out a rough plan. A Hufflepuff whose father was in the Muggle army and a Gryffindor whose father was an auror chipped in and organised them all into positions from where they could best defend and attack, maximising their chances of survival.  
  
Harry had provided the morale, Marc the diplomacy that helped common sense temporarily bury House rivalry, and Nick and Draco the acerbic discipline. Crabbe and Goyle stood, watching Draco narrowly and consideringly, fingering their wands nervously...And then the Death Eaters came - hammering at the door, both physically and magically, unravelling the protective spells one by one, pounding on the door that was, underneath all the magical covering, only wood. A few, chosen students fired off curses through the widening shots in the door and were rewarded by shouts of pain, but the hammering continued.  
  
*******************************  
  
Eyeing each other nervously, they wiped their sweaty palms on their robes, drew deep breaths and briefly closed their eyes, praying for courage, or for survival, or perhaps simply praying to wake up in the next few moments. Then, gripping their wands tightly, as if they would provide security, they turned their eyes towards the door and their thoughts towards the men they would soon kill, or be killed by.  
  
The Gryffindors, buoyed by their own courageous spirits, were even enjoying this slightly - it was an adventure! The adrenaline was pumping, and they found that they liked it, liked the feeling of nerves and preternatural alertness.  
  
The Hufflepuffs, scared stiff and wishing they were anywhere but here, nevertheless held strong, because they were loyal, and would stay with their companions until it was done, because it was the right thing to do. No matter how afraid they were.  
  
The Ravenclaws were fascinated despite themselves, despite their intellectual ideas that they should be above such things as excitement or fear - they stayed because they didn't want to die, and because they wanted to see how far the situation would go, and what they would experience next.  
  
And the Slytherins, perhaps the only ones who knew the true consequences of capture and failure, were the most afraid of them all. But despite the fear, they would stay, and fight, because there was no other option - only death or capture, neither of which was particularly desirable. They couldn't even join them, because the Death Eaters would assume that they had known of the resistance and had actively countenanced it. There were no other options - and the only other thing as deadly as a Slytherin fighting for what he believed in was a Slytherin who had been pushed into a corner and been left no option but to fight. Once all other options were exhausted, and there was nothing left, they could freely throw themselves fully and wholeheartedly into the fight.  
  
*****************************  
  
The first man through the door went down under a barrage of curses, and Draco's clear voice could be heard, shouting. "Don't give away your positions! Keep to the plan!" The next man fell victim to only a few, but admittedly well-placed and planned curses. They remembered the plan Draco and friends had hammered into them - only a few at a time, never predictably, and from alternating positions. This would prevent the Death Eaters from tracking the curses back to their casters and cursing them in turn.  
  
The Death Eaters attacked en masse, perhaps trying to overwhelm them now, while the adult defenders were being pinned down in the other carriages. Draco, involved in a real fight for the first time in his life and not liking it one bit, discovered the curious affects of adrenaline and fear on his body and his perception - like his uncle, time slowed down and crystallised for him, and his thought processes speeded up - he seemed to have forever to think about his next move, and his analysis was cold, clear and logical - he had never killed before, but it came to him easily now, so easily that he was a little wary of it.  
  
But they just kept coming, and so little of the students could actually kill - the Death Eaters were starting to overwhelm them with sheer experience and strength. Recognising this, Draco reminded himself that he had no choice, and kept fighting, all the while calling out to his uncle, his godfather, his protector, who had never before failed him. At the same time, Harry was also realising that they were being pushed back. Unlike Draco's fatalism, he rebelled against the situation, unleashing more of his strength, fighting harder and faster. If only he could bring enough of them down, kill enough, then perhaps a miracle would happen and they would all be saved...  
  
*******************************  
  
They had almost broken down the door, and with it the student's resistance.  
  
Running, Luc came up in the second carriage and, in a moment of pure, Gryffindoric recklessness he would no doubt regret later attacked the attackers from behind, diverting their attention from the students to him. He didn't spare a thought to the bodies lying in the carriage - the students, looking injured and horrified, frozen and protected by his shielding, by the eight's shielding, and the bodies of six of his eight companions. His whole focus, the whole focus of the remarkable will and determination that had taken him from bastard son to tai-pan of the House, was bent on keeping the students safe, and he would do anything, pay any price, to see it done. No matter what it took.  
  
It had been a very long while since he had let go this much of his civilised, carefully crafted veneer - even longer since he had felt such primitive determination and been so single-mindedly bent on one, single goal. But for Draco, for Nick and Marc, even for Harry and all the other students, he would reveal this much of what he usually kept so well hidden.  
  
Dipping deep, deep down into the untapped well of his power, he drew on the strength of his personality, of his soul, of the very Malfoy blood - and instead of wasting it and his time trading curses and getting nowhere, he took the enormous strength, focused it with the entire force of his will, of his determination, of his ambition, and unleashed it on every being on that train who bore the Dark Mark.  
  
Including himself.  
  
************************************ 


	3. Aftermath

Disclaimer – I don't own Harry Potter. Laurell K. Hamilton owns the ardeur. Don't sue me.

CHAPTER 3 - THE AFTERMATH  


Professor Dumbledore hadn't heard from the Hogwarts Express after it left King's Cross station - so his sudden inexplicable sense of unease was strong enough to drive him to trying something he always left as the last possible resort. The scrying bowl was plain earthenware - some used silver, others even gold, but his mentor had always preferred functionality to decoration - and that taste had stuck with him, in this aspect of his life at least. Albus had never been one to restrain himself to good taste and elegance.  
  
The water swirled, blurred, and then coalesced, somehow deepening, into a face Albus knew well - his new DADA teacher, who was never ruffled or discomposed, but in this image was stripped down to what he suspected was his bare personality - the fierce, intent look of grim determination, and in the eyes...some called it madness, others obsession, but the Malfoy had a gift, when they were pushed to the outermost limits of their beings, of being able to strip everything unnecessary away and focus entirely, completely on one objective.  
  
It was in their eyes - the absolute, implacable determination that tipped over into madness, determination that would see them do anything, destroy anything, and promise anything, to see their one desire fulfilled. And he saw that look in Luc's eyes now.  
  
The feeling of unease had escalated into full-blown alarm and almost panic, and he almost ran down the stairs to McGonagall's room, rousing her, and down to Snape's dungeon, where he was pacing back and forth, knowing that something was wrong but not what. The knowledge that the Hogwarts Express was under attack made Snape pale, his eyes lost their emotionless calm and filled with fear for the children, and a growing anger that Voldemort would even dare this much, go this far.  
  
Riding broomsticks, when he hadn't even been up on one in fifty years, Dumbledore managed to keep his balance and, his right and left hand supporters on either side, made astonishing time to the train tracks, following the plume of smoke from the Hogwarts Express' engine.  
  
****************************  
  
They caught up with it half way to Hogsmeade, stranded and unmoving, and, wands out, boarded cautiously, on the lookout for any Death Eaters. The carnage stopped them in their tracks - the dead, navy-blue robed bodies, some obviously felled by the Killing Curse, others by what looked to be a knife, and still others by something even stronger, and the sight of the students made them pale and feel sick to their stomachs.  
  
They were all alive - not one body on the floor was a student - but they had been...frozen, by some kind of shield, or a spell that shut down any signs of life that the Killing Curse could attack. The result was eerily like that of a massacre, even though they knew better. Everything was silent, only the wind, moving across the green fields, made any sound at all - until, with a startled hiss, Snape stood up and looked to his left, towards the front of the train. Robes flying behind him, he all but ran through the carriages, following whatever he had heard to its source.  
  
He found it in the second carriage from the front, where the carnage seemed to be the strongest and bloodiest. Obviously the Death Eaters - for that was what they undoubtedly were, despite their navy blue robes, had been trying to force their way inside the door to the next carriage, and someone had come at them from behind. But that didn't say why it was so still, or why everything and everyone on the train was lying as if dead.  
  
But the feel, the residue of the magic that still all but crackled on the walls of the carriage did. Snape remembered this spell, developed years ago when they had all been at Hogwarts together - he, and the two Malfoy brothers, and the two Lestranges and Andahni and Courtney and Avery. They'd been fooling around, experimenting with setting spells that would target certain types of people, people with certain characteristics. If the caster also had that characteristic, then with the spell they had eventually come up with, they could cause a physical reaction in those with that characteristic, but unfortunately it also affected the caster themselves.  
  
There hadn't seemed to be much point in causing everybody with the blood of Snape's great-aunt Agatha chronic itching, because Snape too came down with it. Nevertheless, they had filed the spell away for future reference. It seemed that Luc had cast a maximum strength Cruciatus on everyone on the train who wore the Dark Mark - including himself - and had kept it up until every single one of them had been neutralised and killed.  
  
But where was the man himself? And where were the students?  
  
**********************************  
  
The door to the first courage swung open, causing Snape to spin around, wand in hand, and Harry Potter to react in exactly the same manner, albeit with less grace, skill or speed. They stared at each other for a long, long moment, over their raised wands, and then Snape, with a sardonic gleam in his eyes, lowered his and murmured, "Do that in school, Potter, and I'll see that you lose more points than you've ever dreamed of."  
  
Harry scowled - right now, he couldn't care less about points, school or even Snape. "So, you finally came, Professor."  
  
Snape ignored the barbed comment and looked past Harry, through the open door into the carriage. "Where is Mr. Malfoy?"  
  
Harry swallowed. "He won't wake up, sir. After we...got rid of the rest of the Death Eaters, he just collapsed on the floor, and we can't wake him up." He sounded worried, more like the fifteen-year-old boy he was and not the Boy who Lived.  
  
Snape pushed past him into the carriage, a little disconcerted to find himself the focus of nearly thirty pairs of eyes, most of them gathered around a still, black-robed form crumpled on the floor. Crossing to kneel down beside it, he reached out a hand and pulled Luc's face towards him, feeling the waxy, cool texture of the skin and noting the extremely pale complexion. He felt dead - but there was life underneath that skin, flowing blood and a faint, erratic heartbeat and the sense of not quite tension in his aura. He was still alive. But he was fading slowly - blood loss, an extreme expenditure of magical strength and reserves, exposure to maximum strength Cruciatus cast with all of his own strength - it all added up to sheer exhaustion, and a total physical collapse now that he was no longer making impossible demands of his body.  
  
Among the students were two older faces - Welsh faces, all to be found beyond the Veil, both of them watching him handle their bastard lord with all the fierce, unblinking vigilance of a hunting hawk. Just in case. "You'd better hope he doesn't die, Professor Snape," the Auror/companion said blandly, but with a pointed look in his eyes.  
  
Snape met his eyes, kept his face impassive and his eyes faintly questioning. It wouldn't do to show any kind of fear or challenge - for all that Snape was a High Clan Lord and this man was a Malfoy servant, the Nine were not to be lightly meddled with. After a short, intense staring match, the companion took pity on him and smiled slightly, with surprising good humour. "He cast the shielding spell over all the other students," he explained. "Only he can undo it."  
  
"Shouldn't it dissolve automatically when he dies?" That was Miss Granger, insatiably curious know-it-all, whose hunger for knowledge occasionally overcame the bounds of tact and good manners.  
  
Marc de Sauvigny, a Gryffindor also, but raised within the High Clan by his cousin Luc, almost hid the slight flicker of his eyelids as he winced.  
  
*********************************  
  
A very young girl, one he didn't recognize (which indicated she was a first year) began to cry, stating emphatically that she wanted to go home; she didn't like it here anymore. Harry and Ron, looking uncomfortable, awkwardly tried to comfort her, only to make her cry even harder. Draco, in a rare display of humanity, watching everyone and daring anyone to react, reached out and gently laid his hand on her shoulder, releasing a small, soothing amount of the ardeur, enfolding her in the warmth of compassion, love and belonging.  
  
The Malfoy ardeur was classed as sex magic, but it was much more than that - it could also spread affection and warmth, or an expression of love, physical, platonic, or otherwise. Snape knew that Luc bound his chosen family to him with the ardeur - with all the love and affection expressed with every touch, every small little dose of the addictive warmth in his magic, and was bound in turn by the very act of binding. Nothing in the world of magic was ever one sided, the world ran on the principle of balance - what was sown, must be reaped, what was taken must be given back. Not now, perhaps not even tomorrow - but certainly one day, it would all come back tenfold upon them.  
  
Snape had never before thought that Draco understood this basic principle - but then, if he had been partially raised by Luc Malfoy, perhaps he hadn't done him enough credit. There was no one as fundamentally aware of the basic laws of magic than a bastard with no standing who has had to use everything he could to succeed, or even to survive. Perhaps he owed Draco an apology.  
  
Looking politely away from Draco's unprecedented and uncharacteristic behaviour, Snape focused on Miss Granger's rather tactless, but nonetheless valid inquiry. "He has tied the shield to his aura, Miss Granger, and normally it would be true that it would melt away when his aura does. However, some of the students he is shielding are grievously, perhaps even fatally injured - that shield, and through it his heartbeat, is the only thing keeping them alive."  
  
She looked puzzled. "His heartbeat? What do you mean, Professor?"  
  
Snape focused the full force of his black eyes on hers, and had the satisfaction of seeing her flinch and swallow. "He is breathing for them, his heart is beating to keep theirs beating - his life and survival is bound to theirs. If he dies, Miss Granger..." He trailed off, his meaning more than obvious.  
  
"But that's - that's forbidden by the Ministry. It's Dark Magic."  
  
He sneered, eyes snapping with contempt. "You will find, Miss Granger, that there is dark magic, and there is Dark Magic - and there is a whole world of difference between them. The Ministry, in its need for absolute control and dictatorship, sought to curtail the powers of the High Clan - and in doing so, declared all magics that offended its middle class, prudish and xenophobic sensibilities forbidden Dark Magic."  
  
Draco, looking up from the now smiling first year, said, "It's not Dark Magic, it's an ancient healing practice. It's easier to control and monitor patients when they're connected to you."  
  
She looked mollified, but then intent. Snape waited patiently for her to take the trail of logic to its inevitable conclusion. "So," she began thinking out loud, "We have to wake him up, without jolting him too much, and without accelerating his heartbeat - so we can't use Enervate..." Enervate woke people up by stimulating the heartbeat and virtually shocking them awake. She looked at him as though he held the answer to everything. "How do we wake him up, sir?"  
  
Snape's eyes held bitter, cynical amusement. "I don't know, Miss Granger."  
  
She opened her mouth, met his eyes, and thought better of it. "Nor do I, sir...but we have to, don't we?"  
  
He sighed. And then a calm, confident voice from behind came, a voice that held the wisdom of the ages, at least to the students. "Yes, my dear students," said Professor Dumbledore, every inch the ancient, omniscient wizard. "We must. But not here...let us take him outside, where we can be more comfortable. And where we are not constantly reminded of death."  
  
********************************  
  
He and McGonagall led the way outside, into the green fields. The students looked around, perhaps surprised that it was only about eleven thirty in the morning - the train had left the station at nine, and it must have seemed that the ordeal they'd gone through had lasted forever. It had, perhaps, taken all of half and hour.  
  
But that, Snape had found, was always the way with life-threatening situations - they slowed time down and they assumed an importance quite over and above that of real life. He had had more than enough experience to know what he was talking about, and to know that they all, Hogwarts, the Ministry and the parents of all the children, owed the fact that any students were alive at all solely to Luc.  
  
Without him, this morning would have been a massacre unprecedented in the wizarding world.  
  
There were times, he supposed, when one could be grateful for Death Eater training.  
  
**********************************  
  



	4. Awakening

Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. 

CHAPTER 4 - AWAKENING  
  


  
He was running through a dark chamber, a tunnel, and all around him he could hear whispers, echoes - memories of his school days, of his years as a Death Eater, of the first few years of his freedom. He could hear his father's voice - the father he had worshipped, and who had tried so hard to keep out of Voldemort's clutches - whispering, talking in his memory.  
  
"...The Lord of a Clan, of an estate, is wed to their land, and the land is wed to the lord. But the Malfoy..." here he paused, turned and looked out over the green, primeval mountains of Gwynedd, the land that the Malfoy had called home since time immemorial. "The Lord of Clan Malfoy is one with his land - and the land is one with the Lord..."* Marcus Malfoy smiled sadly. "The Covenant, my dear boys, is the joy and curse of our lives. It defines us, binds us, restrains us, and gives us the power to soar.and it can never, ever be broken."

  
He faded away, and another voice took his place, another face dispelled the fair hair and silver eyes. "Forever, Luc - forever and a day, as long as the blood still runs and the vows retain their strength..." Kate Evans, the girl he had loved, and lost at Hogwarts, and had buried in a Muggle cemetery because that's what she had wanted, because she had been Muggle born herself, and he had loved her despite her parentage, despite the complete lack of blood or lineage in her background.  
  
Being a bastard himself, and standing no chance of inheriting the mantle of Clan Lord, he might even have gotten away with marrying her...if fate had not intervened, as it had a very nasty habit of doing. She had died, and he had moved on, but the vows he had spoken, the protection he had given her - the protection that had allowed a Muggle born witch with a sister in Gryffindor to survive in Slytherin, especially back then - was still binding upon him; she was gone, as was her sister, but part of her lived on, in her nephew's green eyes. And the vows he had given to her had been transferred to her nephew, her blood.  
  
Another voice, somewhat less pleasant or welcome, took her place. Lord Voldemort, as he had been years ago, before a mother's love and a lost lover's Covenant had combined to bring him down. A compelling face - bold lines, strong angles, and the eyes of a zealot, of a man who would destroy everything for the sake of his vision - burn away the old and the impure, the unworthy and the unbelieving, and build the whole world again from the ashes.  
  
He would make a desert, and he would call it peace.  
  
And his voice - oh, the voice of a prophet, or a messiah - speaking of unspeakable atrocities and making them sound necessary, even reasonable; the sacrifices one makes, he had once said, in order for the vision to become reality. One had to be cruel to be kind - there were times when only surgery could save a life, and going under the knife was the only way. Luc had never believed in his teachings, but he had gone along because it had provided a very good opportunity to dispose of inconvenient relatives who stood in the way of his becoming tai-pan. Others, however, had believed.  
  
Severus Snape, cynic and atheist, scholar and searcher, but still, under all the masks, a sixteen year old boy who had just escaped death with his greatest enemy's assistance, and had immediately after lost all his faith in the last, most incorruptible figure he had ever met, had been more than ready to listen to assurances that yes, he was appreciated; yes, Black and Potter and Lupin should have been punished; and yes, oh yes, one day he would make them all pay. He had believed, for a time - until his natural intelligence had reasserted itself, until his conscience suddenly manifested, until he realized that this was not what he wanted from life. He hadn't known that Luc had been watching the slow awakening, watching the night he suddenly snapped and headed back to the only place he had ever called home.  
  
And there he was - Albus Dumbledore, in all his glory, who had not changed at all in Luc's lifetime, who would probably never change - the twinkling blue eyes, the white beard and half-moon glasses that all contributed to the air of omnipotence comfortably disguised by absent-minded eccentricity. In his own way, the man's true self was as masked and disguised as the most paranoid of Slytherins - under those eyes and that absent-mindedness was a very formidable intelligence, with the determination and patience to match. Albus, whose only weakness were the children he loved so unreservedly, the golden Gryffindors, courageous and light-hearted, the Hufflepuffs, loyal and steady, sweet and uncomplaining, and the Ravenclaws, intelligent and curious, disciplined and balanced.  
  


And, despite what they may think, he had even loved the Slytherins - the difficult, insolent, arrogant and skittish Slytherins, so wary of anything given gratuitously, so dangerous with their morals shaped by a different moral code, where power was the only absolute, where everything was shaped by the Game, and the only rules were the ancient laws of the High Clan - of which, in more than a hundred years of life, he had never yet managed to learn, but that even the smallest Slytherin seemed steeped in.  
  
How could Luc see so clearly into the Headmaster? It was as if he could read the thoughts before they came, before they were translated into facial movements and shifts of the eyes. Why was he still running through the dark tunnel, when he could clearly see the sun, feel something solid beneath his back, and know that he was lying down on the grass in the sun?  
  
What was he doing on the grass...? Oh, yes...there was something about students...? And Death Eaters...! Consciousness returned with a rush. He could feel his heart beating, feel the heartbeat echo, as if hundreds of other hearts were beating in time with it, feel hundreds of chests rise with every breath, feel the terror of the minds he had simply overpowered and taken over for their own survival, the bodies he had slaved to his own, and the power that still poured out of him, in a steady continuous rush, that had made it all possible.  
  
There were nearly eight hundred students whose hearts were beating with his - and every one of them, now, was bound to him and he to them by magical bonds - he'd defended them, had given up his blood for them, (this is my blood, which shall be given up for you...) and now he was irrevocably bound to extend his protection, ensure they survived, after he had interfered so with their normal lives. As if he hadn't enough to protect - Kate's nephew; Draco, Nick and Marc and the rest of the de Sauvigny; Snape, who was under Malfoy patronage and had been since he was eleven; and all the others he'd taken under his wing throughout the years. Now he was bound to the whole of Howarts' student body.  
  
Now he understood what his father had meant.  
  
***********************************  
  
Minerva McGonogall watched, faintly disturbed, as Luc gingerly opened his eyes, squinted, and picked himself up off the ground. None too steady on his feet, he promptly lowered himself back to a sitting position, knees drawn up and head hanging down between them, breathing slowly and deeply.  
  
Then, after he had regained his breath, he raised his head and looked straight at her, his silver eyes still direct and far too perceptive. She remembered those eyes from his school days - they had always been far too old for his age, and they had always managed to disconcert her. And he had known it - of course, he had known it. Even then, he had been able to read them all so clearly - along with Severus Snape and his brother Lucius, the three of them had been the brightest students the school had ever seen, unsurpassed until Hermione Granger had come to Hogwarts.  
  
Had they been anything other than Slytherins, the staff would have been absolutely delighted with them - however, because they had been sorted into the Serpent House, they were regarded with caution, as potential threats, as junior Death Eaters.  
Severus had balked, fought back and lashed out, wielding his intelligence like a weapon; Lucius had simply ignored the harassment, supremely secure in the knowledge that he would one day be Lord Malfoy and that the taunts were beneath him. But Luc - Luc had simply watched with those cool, dispassionate eyes that saw everything and reflected nothing, and had given the impression that he was storing it all up for later, waiting patiently for a more opportune time to act.  
  
And that had scared her more than anything else the other two had ever done. Inside, she was still faintly wary of him - she had been less than pleased to hear that he would be taking up the vacant DADA position. She'd been drinking tea with Albus, discussing the new year, when he'd sprung the surprising announcement on her.  
  
***************(Flashback)**************  
  
"Lucien Malfoy."  
  
Minerva had watched, stunned. Of all the possible candidates, that was definitely not the name she had been expecting to hear. "Luc Malfoy?!"  
  
"Mmhmm." There was a world of rich amusement in Albus' blue eyes - he had always enjoyed putting people off balance, watching their reactions when disconcerted.  
  
"That's ridiculous," she dismissed flatly. "The man is a predator of the worst sort. Besides, he's practically a Death Eater." Everyone knew it, even if there had never been a shred of evidence.  
  
"My dear, that was never proven. Besides, what do you think Severus is?"  
  
To her mind, there was absolutely no similarity between Snape and Luc Malfoy. "Severus repented. He came back to us." Snape actually showed some sign of a human conscience - Luc was nothing but a cold-blooded killer, to her mind.  
  
"Yes, he did. He is a very good man, under all the thorns and masks. But quite frankly, he is not very well regarded in society. He is an academic, when we need a leader. He appears evil, when we need public opinion firmly on our side." He held up a hand, forestalling her automatic outrage. "I know, I know. It's impossibly shallow - but we cannot win this war on our own. We need to convince the people that Voldemort -" she flinched, "has returned, and we need to get them on our side. And Luc Malfoy, the very influential leader of a very powerful House, will help us achieve that."  
  
"It's too dangerous. Do you know what he's like, under all that charm?" Charm she had always seen through - charm that was a lie once you looked straight into his eyes.  
  
"Oh yes. Yes, he's quite ruthless, a conscienceless killer, and implacable once he's set his mind on a goal. But if he brings that focus towards our goals..." He trailed off, a little reluctant to finish that sentence. It didn't sit well with him, playing the Game - he could do it out of necessity, but had never been comfortable with it.  
  
"You'd let him influence the children? He'll teach them all to be ruthless and self-serving." She bit that off, and had the grace to flush when he looked mildly, reprovingly at her.  
  
"Your Gryffindor bias is showing, Minerva." She scowled, on the defensive, and he held up his hands innocently. "I doubt one year will be long enough for him to corrupt anyone - especially if the students hold true to what they know is correct. And as for the Slytherins...they will follow and absorb his teachings, but he will not nudge them towards the Dark side. He is not a Death Eater."  
  
"You know this?" Still upset, but a little mollified.  
  
"I'm certain." And when Dumbledore said that, in that tone, he meant it. She frowned deeply as she considered his words, but in the end her faith in him won out. She nodded, once, sharply, and then changed the subject.  
  
******************(end flashback)**************  
  
Blinking, she came back to the present, watching as Draco Malfoy, the epitome of the spoiled, arrogant High Clan heir, followed by his lieutenant Nick de Sauvigny hurried (with dignity) to his uncle's side, offering his hand, or his shoulder, should Luc need assistance in rising. For once he hadn't taken the opportunity to insult any of the other students, and was actually acting in a quite mature, adult manner.  
  
What in Merlin's name was wrong with him?  
  
She saw Marc de Sauvigny watching, caught his eye, and then slid her gaze over to the two Malfoy, raising an eyebrow. Marc, following her gaze, raised his in turn. He walked over to her, hands in his pockets of his robes, and looked at her in faint curiosity - an expression he had, no doubt, picked up from his cousin. "Since when did Mr. Malfoy start acting with maturity?" she asked, jumping straight to the point.  
  
Marc kept his face straight, but the small lines around his eyes creased as his eyes narrowed imperceptibly in a wince. "Draco has always been capable of maturity, Professor," he murmured softly. "Perhaps he felt it was called for."  
  
"And it is not called for at school?" she retorted, perhaps a little indiscreetly, considering her audience - Marc's face closed up and became completely impassive, not pleased with the line of questioning, but not able to say anything to his Head of House. She had forgotten his blood tie to the Malfoy - his father had been Caine de Sauvigny, Luc's half-brother - so, in a way, he and Draco were cousins. Unthinking, she had spoken to him as she would to a random Gryffindor sharing the normal prejudice - she'd forgotten he was High Clan...  
  
"My apologies, Mr. de Sauvigny," she apologized formally. Merlin, the High Clan, most of them Slytherins, were so difficult to deal with... usually Severus dealt with them, being a Slytherin and a son of one of the original Clans himself - but occasionally they were sorted into other Houses.  
  
Marc's father had been the ideal Gryffindor, and had caused Minerva relatively little trouble (other than the pranks and the high spirits), but Marc - Marc had been raised by Luc, steeped in the culture and customs of the High Clan, and raised on Slytherin morals, traditions and values. There were times when it seemed he was more comfortable with the Slytherins than with his own Housemates.  
  
*****************************  
  
With a strangely formal nod, Marc acknowledged the apology, and walked back to offer his assistance along with his cousins'. Well, truth to tell, only Draco was his cousin - Luc was his father's brother, and Nick - Nick was the youngest son of Aethan and Anne de Sauvigny, which made him Luc's youngest half-brother, and Draco and Marc's uncle...something he held over their heads at every opportunity. But he wasn't thinking of small things like that now - he was still too shaken by the thought of how close they had all come to death, and of Luc's still, pale form lying crumpled on the floor. That had been the most frightening thing about this whole nightmare of a day - the knowledge that Luc, normally so invulnerable and reliable, was a man - nothing more, nothing less.  
  
No one wanted to learn that about their father.  
  
Nick, who had been brought up with him like a brother, was thinking the same thing, he knew - he could see it in the way he watched Luc, in the way he'd stuffed his hands in his robes, to hide the shaking. And Draco, who already had a father, but was just as reliant on Luc, was showing it through the mature behaviour and the way he'd completely ignored any opportunities to bait, insult or terrorise the other students.  
  
Normally he reveled in it, playing the stereotypical bully for the benefit of any spies among the students, seeing how nasty and immature he could become - he didn't care what others thought of him, he knew who and what he was and what he was like, and anyone who didn't care to see past the mask and the ridiculously clichéd behaviour knew what they could do with their disapproval... But now was not the time for playing games, especially not with Crabbe and Goyle so skittish, and so suspicious of the way he and Potter had joined forces. There were times, thought Draco, who had learned about the Game at the feet of the two foremost players in England, when he wished he could simply dispose of the two fools and be done with the charade of Death Eater in-training; but the consequences for him, his father and his uncle, especially now, were too high.  
  
Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer - an old cliché, but it was true. It was safer to have Crabbe and Goyle by his side where he could monitor them and control what they saw and how they interpreted it. They were not the most intelligent of companions, but they were occasionally useful...and if he wanted companionship, he would look elsewhere. Marc, Nick and Draco were like two brothers and a particularly close cousin - they could read each other like open books, could anticipate the others' moves. They might fight amongst themselves, and quite viciously occasionally, but should anyone else step between them...all three would gang up together against the new threat.  
  
They knew they could rely on each other for anything, no questions asked, no price or strings attached. They shared blood - and that was the strongest bond of all. They were family, and in the High Clan, that was everything.  
  
********************************  
  
Standing on his own two feet now, Luc let go of his nephews' shoulders, looked around at the Hogwarts Express, so silent and eerily still, standing dead in its tracks. The students whom he had not shielded were scattered around on the grass - there were between twenty and thirty of them, all black robed, with the two of the Nine still surviving watching, guarding, from a slight distance away, and the teachers clumped in a group off to the side.  
  
They were all watching him expectantly.  
  
Grimacing slightly, because his ears were ringing like they hadn't done since he and the rest of his school friends had snuck off to see the Muggle band Queen play live in Hyde Park - and had been caught in the very front row near the speakers (what did young people call that area now? The mosh pit? What a curious term...) he stood and tested the magic that bound him and the students.  
  
It was old, old magic used mainly by healers, before the Ministry had outlawed it - he remembered coming across it when researching for a DADA assignment, and it had had such interesting and potentially useful applications that he'd made a point of remembering it. He'd tried to use it when Kate had been injured, but hadn't been powerful or skilled enough to completely pull it off - and she'd died, so he'd consciously forgotten this technique...until now, when in desperation he'd used it as a last resort shield. It was the first time he'd ever employed it successfully - although he'd make it a point not to mention that when he made his report to Dumbledore. There was no need to worry the man unnecessarily.  
  
Nevertheless, the magic held strong - their heartbeats were synchronized with his, he could, if he so wished, enter their bodies and heal them, or break them...there were really only twenty or so who were severely injured, he didn't think any of them were dead - he had been able to shield them before any of the Killing Curses hit.  
  
So, focusing on all who wouldn't die the moment he stopped breathing for them, he dissolved the bond slowly, allowing them to wake up naturally, giving them time for their involuntary bodily functions to begin acting independently from his before he let go completely. And then, making sure he kept firm hold of the critically injured students, he severed the bond completely, and felt them come back to consciousness with the fading vestiges of his magic.  
  
He breathed a silent sigh of relief.  
  
And then he fainted again; this time going under so completely not even his dreams followed him down.  
  
*****************************  
  


"The land is wed to the Lord, and the Lord to the land." from Robert Jordan's "The Eye of the World", somewhat modified.


	5. The Price

Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. The concept of a 'tai-pan' I borrowed from James Clavell. Don't sue me.

CHAPTER 5 - THE PRICE.  
  


  
  


Lucius Malfoy knelt at his master's feet, masked, robed and anonymous; he knew that the Dark Lord could identify every one of the Death Eaters present here tonight through the Blood bond established by the Dark Mark. The obscene mark, visible sign of a Blood Bond, albeit a corrupted and twisted one, allowed the issuer, the bonder, to Call those marked, the bonded, to their side; to know their general location at any one particular time; and it allowed him to send sensations, or instructions, through the bond over long distances.  
  
Lucius should know - he himself held Blood bond for every man, woman and child on the Malfoy estate. Unlike the Death Eaters and their lord, however, this bond was mutual - the original, natural form of the magic. Mutual protection and defense - their blood for his; his for theirs. Voldemort's bond entailed much blood shedding on the part of the Death Eaters, and none on Voldemort's part. Not for the first time, Lucius cursed the circumstances that had made it necessary for the proud, powerful Marcus Malfoy, the father he had always worshipped, to join with the then Tom Riddle. He cursed himself for the necessity of following in his father's footsteps, and he cursed his younger brother's ambition, the ambition that had taken him to the heights, and could make keeping that position more than perilous.  
  
He couldn't say that neither he or Luc hadn't benefited from his association with Voldemort - but even so, the cost was far, far too high. The Ministry was already almost virtually certain that they were both Death Eaters - there was no proof, none at all, but what was that when the price of discovery was Azkaban, the complete confiscation of all Malfoy assets and money not squirreled away overseas (and Luc and his connections had made sure there was a lot stored off shores) - and, perhaps worst or all, the seizure of the estate, of the land that had been in the Clan since the beginning.

  
Without the land, the Malfoy were nothing. His father had known that, but had thought the risk justified - he and Luc had known that, but had joined anyway, had been willing to take the risk. At that age, they might even have enjoyed the deception and the challenge - Gods, but they'd been so young - but they had to have been, had to have the extreme certainty and arrogance of youth to have done what they had done...  
  
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Luc had had very little to lose - it had been the only way to power, when a strong tai-pan had already been at the helm of the House, and a strong heir had looked set to follow him. He'd had no chance at all of becoming the Malfoy - at least in the House the leader was more or less elected, the only absolute criterion being that they had to be a scion of the House, of the de Sauvigny blood.  
  
He'd been a scion of the blood, but unacknowledged - he'd first needed to find an influential member of the family to vouch for him, and then he'd needed to dominate the Clan so completely that they would ignore his name and his connections to the Malfoy, his mother's strident opposition and his rather...shady reputation. He ruled half of the younger generation, his peers - the other half supported Caine, his half brother and his biggest rival.  
  
The issue had split the Clan - Slytherin against Gryffindor, the more progressive and ambitious against the traditional and conservative. Luc had promised, if he took control, to take the House into the future - to expand and restructure, to turn it from an influential English firm with outposts throughout the former British Empire into a global empire. He was a Malfoy, with corresponding ambition - and he had a vision, an obsession - one that he could almost taste, it was so near. All he needed to do was to get rid of any and all opposition standing in his way.  
  
Hence the move to join the Death Eaters - he'd used the raids and assassinations and "accidents" to eliminate his rivals. Subtly, otherwise it would draw unwanted attention. Quietly, so that his reputation was spotless, his word unchallenged. Since leaving Hogwarts, he'd had no association with the Dark Arts at all - he'd moved in the correct circles, showed signs of moving away from the High Clan's more dangerous side, and had learned to make himself both accepted and liked by the general populace.  
  
He'd played the Game, and it provided adequate cover for his activities as a Death Eater assassin - he'd executed every single one of his de Sauvigny rivals personally, taking great pleasure in it, and mourning the next day. It was hypocrisy of the first order, of course - but some things were necessary, if his goal was to be achieved. Take what you want, and pay for it. He'd wanted, and he'd taken, and he'd known, deep down, that one day payment would be due. But not today, and not tomorrow...and not the day after that. Not yet.  
  
And now, fifteen years after he'd stood, pale and, if not grieving then at least solemn, at Caine de Sauvigny's funeral, with feral triumph running like blood through his veins, and had accepted with the proper gravity the mantle of tai-pan, payment had come due. Voldemort was back, and he was demanding a choice. Return to the fold, or see everything he'd ever wanted, everything he'd built and shaped and created, threatened by the very force he'd used to gain it.  
  
Oh, Lucius...what happened to the certainty, to the fire and energy of their youth? They were thirty-six, thirty-seven, coming into the prime of their lives, and they'd seen enough blood and death to last a thousand lifetimes, had so much blood on their hands that it would never wash off, and they had, knowingly and willingly, forfeited any chance of redemption long, long ago. It had been worth the price, once...perhaps it still was, when he saw what he had made of the House, when he felt the warmth and acceptance of his adopted family, when he looked into his nephew's eyes - both of them - and saw what they would one day become.  
  
Luc had paid too much, in blood, innocence and pieces of his soul, to ever let anything or anyone threaten it. He had too much to lose now - the Dark Lord's summons would go unanswered, and he would take the consequences as they came. But it hurt - oh, yes, it cut to the soul, the knowledge that Lucius, for the exact same reasons, had decided to go back...Lucius, my brother, oh my brother, my friend, my confidante...if you come for your son I will keep him from you - if you come against me, I will destroy you...  
  
*********************************  
  
He was weeping.  
  
Luc Malfoy was weeping.  
  
Snape, slouching tiredly in a chair in the Hospital Wing, watched in almost horrified fascination as the man he had known since the first year at Hogwarts wept slowly in his dreams. He'd never seen Luc cry - not even when Kate had been hit by a bludger and had never woken up from her coma, not even when she'd died. Not even at her funeral in a windy muggle cemetery, when he'd turned his back on the light and embraced ambition, the promise of power and an obsession that would let nothing stand in its way. There'd been nothing left, by then, but the obsession.  
  
Oh, Gods...Luc was the most controlled of men. Something must be seriously bothering him, if it led to tears, even in an exhausted sleep - the last thing he, Dumbledore and Hogwarts needed was for him to have a nervous breakdown now. Snape pulled himself up. Not that he was any better - his dreams were haunted by memories, nightmares, images of his past and his foolishness; why had he ever thought that Luc was any different? Because Luc Malfoy gave the impression of invincibility and omnipotence - the always composed, always capable tai-pan, who could easily shoulder everybody's burdens, mediate in hostile disputes and still run a business empire with style.  
  
He always had, even at school - Snape supposed that he'd just vaguely assumed that Luc didn't have a guilty conscience, that once the end had justified the means and the act was done, it was finished and forgotten about. That was the High Clan way, after all - and what was Luc, but the epitome of what the High Clan should be? Powerful, ruthless, ambitious, diplomatic and exquisitely mannered, always controlled, never tiring or complaining, strong and sure and more than capable of holding, defending and if necessary avenging whatever and whoever he thought of as his.  
  
And most of all, a High Clan Lord was flawless. Above petty flaws and everyday concerns, he was larger than life and incapable of mistakes.  
  
The form lying on the white hospital bed, breathing a little slowly and hoarsely, skin paler than usual and eyes dark shadowed, the hands, usually so capable and expressive, lying still and curiously vulnerable, and tears leaking out from under his eyelids, was not a Clan Lord. He was a man.  
  
A remarkably strong, intelligent man, with enormous determination and strength of will; a dangerous man, subtle and silent, swift and strong; a controlled man, who, in learning to control himself had learned to control others. A scholar, a warrior, a leader - a Clan Lord. But just a man.  
  
For the first time, Snape looked beyond the illusion and the mask, and saw the man.  
  
******************************  
  


In Hogwarts that night, at the feast, all the talk was about their new DADA teacher - for once, the students said, Dumbledore had got it right - this one was actually capable of living up to his title. Even if someone had heard, somewhere, that he was a Malfoy, of all things... Thanks to his spectacular collapse, he was not in attendance at the feast or the Sorting, so Dumbledore introduced him in his absence.  
  
"And so, dear students, another year, another Defence Professor," he said, wryly. The students, those above first year, all agreed with mocking smiles. Well, the Slytherins did, at least - the other Houses were too polite, and merely chuckled.  
"Most of you would have had first hand knowledge of his abilities," here, some of the students, those who actually had seen him action, agreed wholeheartedly. "And we are, all of us, more than thankful of that. Unfortunately, such a courageous effort," here, Snape stifled a most inappropriate snort, thinking of what Luc would say to such praise, "has left him incapable of attending the feast. So I will introduce him anyway, seeing as you will all no doubt meet him at some time in the first week. Professor Lucien Malfoy..." anyone not in Slytherin, with the exception of Harry, and Marc de Sauvigny, stiffened in surprise, "has kindly given up one year of his time to be this year's DADA professor. I hope that you will make him welcome, and will treat him with all the respect he deserves."  
  
And with that, he resumed his seat, leaving the Hall in an uproar of speculation. He was a Malfoy? But he'd fought against the Death Eaters - he'd been on their side. Some students shook their heads. He was dark haired - Malfoy were fair. It was a fact, like saying Gryffindors were brave, and Slytherins were sly. He couldn't be a real Malfoy, could he, if he was black haired? Others, those whose parents worked in the Ministry or the corporate world, knew the name Luc Malfoy - knew it all too well, and the reputation that went with it. They asked what he was doing at Hogwarts, when he had so many other responsibilities. Did he have some hidden motive? A secret agenda? Perhaps he was worth watching...  
  
And all wondered what this would mean for the Houses - he'd been a Slytherin, right? Just like Professor Snape? Did this mean that he would favour them over the other Houses? Did this mean Malfoy would get away with even more than he already did? Only the select few who actually knew Luc Malfoy, knew his past and his secret, knew what this really meant - Luc Malfoy had made his choice. And he'd chosen Dumbledore.  
  
This was a challenge, a flaunting of his wealth and his power and his resources, all of which would now go to Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix; and it was a gauntlet - come and take Hogwarts now, if you can; come and take the students from under my protection.  
  
Come and get the Malfoy Heir and the Boy who Lived, if you dare.  
  
*******************************  
  
Albus Dumbledore, later that night, sat down in the same chair Snape had, and watched over Luc. He remembered him as a young boy, dark haired and pale skinned, with shadowed silver eyes. Even then, he had seen the potential in the eleven-year-old boy - he'd also seen the ambition and the lengths to which, if pushed, he would go. Oh, he would shine, one day - but whether for good, or for evil, he simply couldn't tell.  
  
Dumbledore was certain that Luc had indeed gone to the Death Eaters after Kate died - the sudden, violent snapping of a soul bond, of a romantic bond that bound two souls together for life - could be traumatic even for fully grown wizards; Merlin only knew what it had done to Luc at seventeen.  
  
But he also knew that Luc had no further use for the Dark Lord - in fact, had too much to lose if he did return - and so would throw his considerable weight behind the resistance. And so he had felt safe in asking Luc to teach at Hogwarts, even for a year - having another highly skilled operative, other than Snape, defending Hogwarts could be nothing but beneficial...and he was good with children. He could indeed teach them something useful - perhaps if some of that formidable discipline and self-control rubbed off onto the more volatile students...? He wanted to keep Draco away from the Dark Lord. If he could keep just one student from the Dark, it would be more than enough.  
  
Dumbledore had tried, long years ago, to turn a brilliant, charismatic boy towards the light, and had lost him to sheer chance and the weight of ambition. Others had followed, or gone with him - Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape, Rayden Lestrange, Brandon Avery...he had failed spectacularly, with that year. Just one of the Lords of Slytherin - the High Clan children who had dominated the Serpent House since their third year - would have been enough to bring the wavering High Clan families onto Dumbledore's side. But to have them all - all! - join the Death Eaters had been an unparalleled disaster. They had lost the High Clan, and the Slytherins, completely.  
  
But at least one of them had come back...and another had, with his acceptance of the DADA position, indicated his willingness to return. There was no such thing, to his thinking, as too late. Standing up slowly and carefully, he smoothed Luc's hair in an oddly tender gesture, pulled up the covers and put a hand to his forehead in gentle benediction. Then, with a last, backwards look, he blew out the lantern and silently closed the door behind him.  
  
*********************************** 

  
  



	6. Interlude the rewards of virtue

Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. Don't sue me. 

INTERLUDE - THE REWARDS OF VIRTUE  
  


  
(Three weeks ago.)  
  
Benjamin Greyson, the American liaison between British and American aurors sent to Britain to help in the fight against Voldemort, stood beside his ambassador and watched the movers and shakers of English wizarding society from the sidelines. Or rather, he watched them as the ambassador, a lean, silver-haired wizard of immense dignity, provided a brief thumbnail sketch of who was who and what was what.  
  
"English society is nothing like ours," began the ambassador. "While they purport to be a democracy, and make much of the two-house system of Parliament, one thing you will find is that, while the ministers control the government, there is usually always someone in the shadows, controlling the ministers."  
  
Here he smiled thinly, cynically. "And perhaps someone behind the controller, also."  
  
Ben took a moment to sip his champagne, wondering with distaste why events that took place under brilliant chandeliers and in the public eye always had so many shadows and undercurrents. Ben didn't like depths, undercurrents or shadows - he had no tolerance for deception or politicking, and he had made it well known. A blue-eyed, sandy haired man, the very image of the all-American male, he had a reputation for forthright, blunt dealing and for sticking to the rules - it had earned him the label of Boy Scout, more than once. And he was proud of it. England was a hot bed of politics and plotting, but he was determined not to be dragged down into the muck.  
  
The ambassador continued. "You'll need to know the ministers, of course - but more importantly, you'll need to know the main players in the shadows, you know, who controls what and whom." He inclined his head to the right. "There - by the window - the pale blonde man, and the dark haired man next to him. Lucius and Luc Malfoy, respectively. They control a coalition of aristocrats called the High Clan, because two or three thousand years ago the ancestors of the High Clan swore allegiance to the first Lord Malfoy."  
  
Ben blinked. "That's a long time to hold to an allegiance."  
  
The ambassador laughed. "Oh, there've been infights since then - the Malfoy have just never been ousted." He looked away from the brothers Malfoy, then focused on another group of well-dressed, supremely confident guests. "The leaders of the High Clan, under the Malfoy - Rayden Lestrange," (a proud white-haired man with an earring) "who took over when his elder brother was sent to Azkaban; Dirk Courtney," he indicated a golden haired man with an insolent smile, "Luc Malfoy's right-hand man - and a very influential man in his own right..."  
  
He went on, eyeing a black-haired, languid man lounging on the sofa. "Brandon Avery - who despite his apparent ennui is a very, very effective intriguer - don't ever get on his bad side, Grey. It's not worth it."  
  
He paused. "There are others, of course - but most of them aren't worth mentioning, and you'll meet them, soon enough. Shan Andahni, Lestrange's cousin - he's not a major player, but he fits in so well with the rest of society, you can find yourself getting closer to him than is prudent. Rosier, McNair, Parkinson, Zabini and Bulstrode - they're all bit players, nothing on the scale of the Malfoy or Lestrange, Courtney and Avery - those four have the lineage, money, land and charisma to really influence. They're the dangerous ones."  
  
The ambassador held his champagne up to the light, watching the play of the bubbles on the glass. "And there is one other." Taking a sip, he looked pensive for a moment. "Severus Snape, who could very well be one of the leaders of the High Clan - Lord knows he's got the lineage and the intelligence..." He smiled wryly. "However, for all that, he spends his time immured in the dungeons at Hogwarts, terrifying children and teaching Potions. In that order."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because he confessed to being a Death Eater. All these others," he made a gesture that encompassed the whole of the High Clan "they were all suspected of being Death Eaters - it was well known, but couldn't be proven - but Snape actually confessed. So while the others are feted, fawned over and enjoy all the benefits of money, power and position, Snape spends his life virtually imprisoned at Hogwarts teaching uncaring and unappreciative students."  
  
His smile turned razor thin. "The rewards of virtue..."  
  
Ben scowled. "That's not right."  
  
"No, but that's the way the world works, Mr. Greyson. Look at Luc Malfoy. He is a bastard son of the Malfoy, but he controls the House of de Sauvigny - and not because his mother's husband chose him to follow after him. Luc fought his way to the top, using his Malfoy blood and the backing of the rest of the High Clan. Anyone who stood in his way died, until eventually he was the only candidate capable of ruling the House. All the others were dead, of accidents or Death Eaters. They were forced to choose him - even though he would, normally, not even have been considered for the position."  
  
"I can see why," Ben murmured. "The House is now joined irrevocably to the Malfoy - no doubt the original founder would be rolling in his grave. So if they know that he got rid of them, then why hasn't he been arrested?"  
  
Snorting, the ambassador scowled. "That knowledge only came from hindsight - years after Luc became tai-pan. By then, it was clear that he was a capable administrator, the books were showing a record profit and scions of the de Sauvigny were being treated with a new respect, for fear of Malfoy reprisal. The House was willing to forgive any old misadventures now that Luc was looking after them so well. So nobody wanted to face the combined backing of the House and the Malfoy to arrest him when there was absolutely no proof that he had anything to do with those deaths."  
  
There was also the fact that it was in the Ministry's best interests that Luc remain tai-pan - he had adopted a policy of co-operation with the ministry that had led to great profit for them both, and since the next in line was a child, they didn't want to lose that lucrative partnership. It was best all around if Luc Malfoy, despite whatever sins he may have committed in the past, remain in charge and not someone else who might upset the satisfactory status quo.  
  
Something the ambassador had said was troubling Ben. "The High Clan don't control all the Ministers, do they?"  
  
"No, and not even most of them. They used to, but since Voldemort's rise, people are more wary of them."  
  
"Then who controls the others?"  
  
The ambassador smiled. "Albus Dumbledore."  
  
"What? He's the Headmaster, not a political player."  
  


"He doesn't need to be. They follow him out of loyalty."  
  
"So the High Clan oppose Dumbledore?"  
  
"Surprisingly not, or at least not all of the time. In fact, to further illustrate this, Dumbledore has hired Luc Malfoy to be this year's Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. I'm told it's a great honour, and a great show of co-operation."  
  
"What?!! My son is going to attend Hogwarts this year. How could Dumbledore tolerate a man like that on his staff?"  
  
"I don't know, but I'm sure he has a good reason. He's a very deep man, but he has his student's best interests at heart, in every decision he makes."  
  
"You trust him."  
  
"Oh yes," mused the ambassador. "I would trust him with not only my life, but my soul as well...your son will be safe at Hogwarts."  
  
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	7. Introducing a Mystery

Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. Any characters that you don't recognise are mine.

  
CHAPTER 6 - INTRODUCING A MYSTERY  
  


  
The newest fifth year Slytherin student, Bran Greyson, sat huddled in his window seat, the curtains of deep, forest green velvet screening him from the rest of his dorm mates and their cold, knowing and far too calculating eyes.  
  
Especially Malfoy's.  
  
Draco Malfoy, eldest and only son of Lucius Malfoy, heir to an ancient title, a vast estate and more money than he could ever imagine...and with all that came power, influence, a certain cachet...and a mind that saw everything in terms of strength and weakness, of gains or losses. He lived and breathed the Game - the High Clan, Slytherin politics - no doubt it was so ingrained in him now that nothing he ever did was natural or spontaneous, every action, every word carried hidden meaning, and every person was either an ally or an enemy, sometimes changing roles due to circumstances.  
  
He ruled Slytherin with an iron, velvet sheathed fist - even in the three hours of the Feast, Bran had learned that - every single Slytherin student walked warily around him, except for his right hand and companion, Nick de Sauvigny. Nick was...different. He seemed more suited to what he had heard of the Gryffindors than Slytherin. He was easy going, friendly and charming, without any of Draco's veiled intensity - but, underneath that charm, he sensed a hint of steel, a will and an intelligence that would not accept barriers or boundaries, or any master.  
  
Save for Draco, who seemed to be his chosen lord...he had seen this before, when two extraordinary minds encountered each other, and the choice was between animosity and alliance - alliance allowed them to dominate, to rule, when animosity would only lead to weakness. So they joined forces, and were stronger for it.  
  
And at the moment, it seemed that they had reserved judgement on his situation - a fifth year transfer student from an American school, his father had been sent by the American Ministry as a liaison for the American forces sent to help in the fight against You-Know-Who.  
  
They'd politely, skillfully extracted the relevant information from him at the Feast - he was of old New England stock, his father could trace his lineage back to the Mayflower and they had been part of Boston society for nearly four hundred years. His mother was Muggle-born (he'd seen them all exchange glances at that) and was originally from England. Yes, she had gone to Hogwarts - her name was Katherine, and she had started school in 1971. She'd left just before taking her NEWTs - he didn't know why.  
  
His mother had been the one to tell him about Hogwarts. "Hogwarts is like nowhere else I have ever seen," she had said, in her cool, calm voice. She was always cool, calm and composed - he had never once seen her ruffled.  
  
"It's the place, probably the only place, where high, middle and even lower class wizards mingle together, all of them on an equal footing, none of them ranked above or below anyone else. Throw in the muggle borns like I was, and you have an absolute melting pot of culture, ideologies, religions, traditions, feuds and prejudices all living under one roof. How the headmaster controls that place I'll never know."  
  
"They're all thrown in together and expected to co-operate and live together?" He'd been intrigued despite himself. God knew he hadn't been pleased at the thought of moving to England...but perhaps there might be something good about it.  
  
"Yes. Prejudice - class, House and even racial - is rife but at the same time there's an unprecedented freedom at Hogwarts. Mudbloods," she said it so calmly, while he winced, "can fall in love with a prince of the highest High Clan..."  
  
She'd described the Houses and their characteristics - golden Gryffindor, with its courage and chivalry, recklessness and joie de vivre; cool Ravenclaw, where the intellect was supreme and curiosity was rewarded; loyal, steadfast Hufflepuff, which was a joke to the rest of the school, but nevertheless an essential part of its whole. And Slytherin - ancient home of intrigue and ambition, of great leaders and even greater madmen - the Serpent House was the home of those who wanted to make their mark on the world, for good or for evil, for better or for worse.  
  
He remembered thinking he would have liked to be in Gryffindor, with proud scarlet and gold on his robes and a brave, reckless light in his eyes...but it had all gone horribly, horribly wrong. The Death Eaters had attacked, and he'd been in the first carriage, watching in fascination when Professor Malfoy had so efficiently killed the two Death Eater guards, and later on, had learned for himself the terrible, seductive thrill of bringing a man down with two words, and the terrifying knowledge of how vulnerable life truly was...  
  
He'd learned to hate, and he'd learned the true seductiveness of power. On that one train ride, in that short period of time, he'd changed from a relatively innocent, untried but brave and confident youth who'd thought himself worldly and cool - perfect Gryffindor material - to a still brave, but thoroughly shaken and suddenly all too mortal youth who knew that he was capable of killing, and secretly, shamefully, reveled in that fact. He'd learned to hate, and he'd learned of the power that came from hate; he'd learned of death, and how quickly it came, how indifferent it was to justice, or fairness, or human decency.  
  
He'd learned to be Slytherin.  
  
And that was why he was avoiding the other boys' eyes - they were far too knowing, could see into his heart and his thoughts and his mind...they knew what he was, because they were like him too - they'd been where he was, and they'd long ago gone past it. And he didn't want to follow them to where they were now. But he feared he had no choice.  
  
**********************************  
  
The rest of the fifth year Slytherin boys sat and watched the curtained window seat, eyes as cool and calculating as Bran had imagined. The newest member of their group, which had been more or less fixed since their first ride on the Hogwarts Express, or perhaps even since they had first met long before starting school, had proven to be a rather interesting puzzle. If his mother was a Mudblood, as he claimed, then for the Hat to even think of admitting him into Slytherin, his father must be very, very old blood - but the Greysons, although they were old blood in America, only went back four hundred years - not nearly old enough to be High Clan. Someone was lying.  
  
Blaise Zabini had already met the esteemed Benjamin Greyson - apparently he was fair haired, blue eyed and rather ordinary, with a certain presence, an air of confidence, wealth and trustworthiness, but not the unmistakable air of an intriguer and a politician. He seemed to be exactly what he claimed to be - an honest man. A Gryffindor.  
  
But Bran, his son and heir - Bran was dark haired, and grey eyed, and while he did have an air of recklessness, of bravado, and a disconcerting honesty, somewhere someone had taught him how to be High Clan. His body language was a study in contradiction. He spoke like an American with a British mother, but had knowledge of High Clan manners and used them properly. He held himself with all the pride of a High Clan scion, but behaved like an undisciplined American adolescent. He knew the very basic ideas of the Game, but held it in contempt and refused to play, and his eyes were as innocent as a first year Hufflepuff's.  
  
But somehow he had been sorted into Slytherin.  
  
No doubt that was because of what happened on the train - Draco had caught a glimpse of him before the attack, when he'd been going around playing bully, and had immediately labeled him Gryffindor - although he had noted the odd contradictions, he'd looked into his eyes and seen red and gold. The attack had changed everything - he'd seen the world as the Slytherins did, for one terrifying moment, and his mysterious mentor's teachings, if they hadn't been believed before, had now been punched home.  
  
Not for the first time, Draco wondered who had taught him about Slytherin, and why they weren't influential enough that Bran hadn't completely believed or understood the teaching...it had definitely not been his father, but could it have been his mother?  
  
She had been at Hogwarts in 1971 - a mudblood named Katherine. Perhaps it was worth looking her up...  
  
******************************  
  
The full moon rose in the sky above Hogwarts, illuminating the grounds that Bran Greyson looked out upon, that Dumbledore watched and protected as if it were his own domain, and that countless students had once called a home away from home. The light flooded into the infirmary window, outlining the room in stark black and white and eerie blue-black, and it turned Luc Malfoy's features into a study of carved shadows and planes, white, white skin and black hair, shadowed eyes and cheekbones...he, too, stood at the window and looked out at the grounds, remembering a night, some twenty years ago, when he had stood vigil like this.  
  
There was something shadowed about that memory, something he should remember but didn't, couldn't...something important. Before, ever since that night, he had refused to even try to remember because it hurt so much, but now...in his dreams, in his memories, he remembered her voice, and he remembered there was something...wrong.  
  
Perhaps he should have invested in a Remember-all, like Mr. Longbottom...  
  
But there were more other, more immediate things to think about than a twenty-year old mystery. Such as Voldemort, and his unprecedented attack on Hogwarts. Such as Lucius, who had gone back to the Dark Lord, and who would undoubtedly be sent against him, because Voldemort knew Luc would be more than reluctant to destroy his own brother. Such as Draco, who would now be torn in two directions, between him and his father, between the Light and the Dark - Voldemort or Dumbledore?  
  
And Harry Potter. Harry Potter, Lily's son with her green eyes, with Kate's green eyes - and, also, James' face, body and temperament...he wondered, idly, what children he might have had, if Kate had survived. Would they have had green eyes, like Harry? Or the Malfoy eyes - silver-blue-grey.  
  
He'd marked Harry, extended to him the protection he'd given Kate - fifteen long years he'd secretly watched over him from afar, forbidden from interfering directly by Dumbledore's edict. And now, for the first time since he was an infant and Lily himself allowed him to hold the child, Harry was under his direct protection. He would have to keep them all safe, somehow. Especially the American child, Greyson's son, who looked nothing at all like his father; it wouldn't do for such an important man to lose faith in Hogwarts. All the same, there was something very curious about that boy...  
  
He shrugged, and turned his thoughts to the staff meeting tomorrow evening. There they would decide what to do, now that Hogwarts had been directly threatened, the world was slowly tearing itself apart again, and the Ministry still denied that Voldemort had even returned to life. It seemed that he had committed himself to Dumbledore. How strange, the way he had somehow come back to where he had been twenty years ago, but only on the other side of the fence. For the first time, he understood something of what his teachers must have felt, when they watched the students slipping away from them and the world going to hell around them.  
  
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	8. Mind Games

Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. I don't own Sun Tzu. Don't sue me. 

CHAPTER 7 - MIND GAMES  
  


  
Dumbledore reclined in his favourite, overstuffed armchair in the staffroom and watched in considerable amusement and some wariness as his newest professor very slowly, very deliberately poured himself a very stiff drink and tossed it back in one go - placing the glass very carefully back down on the table with a distinct, icy click. His silence and his controlled movements were icy with an awful tension - the very air seemed to hold its breath around him.  
  
He knew - they all knew - that the High Clan were at their most dangerous when they were quiet and controlled, when the air hummed around them with the force of their aura and their control...when the very lack of expression was a blatant sign on its own. He wondered how many people had seen that face just before dying...  
  
But half a glass of Ogden's Old Firewhisky seemed to have a mellowing effect - soon enough Luc lost some of his stiffness, and flopped down in an armchair (gracefully, always gracefully), leaning his head back and wearily closing his eyes.  
  
Snape was also watching, he saw - watching with a small, secret smile and eyes that were almost warm. Not for the first time, he wondered at just how close Snape and the Malfoy brothers had really been at school - well, High Clans were notorious for their more...relaxed attitudes...  
  
Not, of course, that it was any of his business.  
  
"So, my dear Luc, how did you find your first day of teaching?" Snape was in an almost mellow mood - he seemed more than willing to bait his fellow Slytherin.  
  
One grey eye opened lazily, balefully glaring, while a small smile flirted with the edges of his mouth. "I don't think I'll answer that, Mr. Snape..."  
  
Snape tutted sympathetically. "As bad as that?" The small smile widened.  
  
Both eyes opened now, and he sat up straight. "I control an international trading empire, and the unruly, independent family that goes hand in hand with it. I can turn most people, both Muggle and wizards, to my will, and I can even intimidate Death Eaters and aurors alike, if I try hard enough." He was scowling outright now. "So why can't I control and intimidate a classroom of twenty adolescent children?"  
  
Snape gave up and grinned. "Because you treat them like equals." Luc raised an eyebrow and poured himself another drink, sipping it slowly this time.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Don't ever, ever treat students like equals - you have to be the one in control, the lord and master. A classroom is not a democracy - and if you try to treat it like one, they will take terrible advantage...as I'm assuming they did."  
  
Almost unwillingly Luc smiled. "Oh yes...tell me, were we ever as bad as that, when we were young?" He addressed that straight faced to Dumbledore and McGonagall, who had been teaching back then. Dumbledore merely smiled and chuckled silently, and McGonagall pursed her lips, but didn't say anything. She didn't need to - they all knew the answer to that. Their year had been notorious, and they had earned every bit of that reputation genuinely. The Marauders had not been alone in their infamy.  
  
Luc grinned, and then sobered. "They are hopelessly inadequate - so far it seems the only good teacher they've ever had was Lupin," momentarily both he and Snape wore fleeting, identical expressions, "and they've gotten used to disruptions in the routine and continuity of the course. That is to say..." he looked Dumbledore straight in the eye, "that they've come to take the situation for granted, and have learned to dismiss Defence against the Dark Arts as a joke. Which we absolutely cannot have - especially not now."  
  
McGonagall looked outraged on Dumbledore's behalf - but the man himself seemed thoughtful. "Can you do anything about it?" he asked gravely.  
  
Luc only sighed. "I can try...but as I'll only be here for a year, there's a limit to what I can achieve in such a short time. I think," he steepled his fingers and touched them to his lips thoughtfully, "I think I'll focus more on mental preparation than actual spells, which can be learned for oneself..."  
  
"Which explains the rather...eclectic reading list you've requested for this year..." Snape said in amusement. "Tell me, have any of them actually heard of half of those books?"  
  
Suddenly, Luc's scowl came back full force. "No. And that's the heart of it," he said darkly. "Three-quarters of them can't even read Latin properly, and as for Greek...well, the less said about that, the better. Some of them have never even read the English translations..." and here, it seemed, was the heart of his outrage. "And some of them have never even heard of Sun Tzu!"  
  
Only Snape displayed the appropriate shock.  
  
Dumbledore couldn't help himself. "Who's Sun Tzu?"  
  
Luc snarled and slammed the glass down on the table so hard it shattered. Ignoring their laughter and smiles, he slowly held up his hand, watching crimson streams of blood run slowly downwards towards his wrist. In a completely unselfconscious gesture, he licked the blood away, closing his eyes respectfully as he tasted the warm, coppery liquid. One should never partake of the sacred wine carelessly, no matter where it came from.  
  
The staff members fell silent for a moment as they realized just how far removed from mainstream society the High Clan really was - there were times when they forgot and treated him just as they would each other, but then he would do something like that, and it would all come crashing back. With Snape, who kept such a self-imposed distance, one never forgot the difference because he enforced it - but Luc blended in so well...  
  
"I am trying to teach them about mind games," he mused thoughtfully. "The Ravenclaws are intelligent, perhaps the only House where they've actually gone through the reading list," he continued on, fully composed now. "They have the knowledge, but not, I think, the full understanding of the implications; other than on a theoretical basis..." His hand was now completely healed, so he flicked his wrist, wandlessly, and the shattered glass pieces coalesced back into their former shape.  
  
"The Hufflepuffs read because they are required to, but I don't think that any of them would understand or even take seriously the reasons behind it all - they have no knowledge of power, or ambition, or the lengths to which people will go to fulfill them. Gryffindors understand tactics and strategy, but not cold patience or the...certain ruthlessness needed to employ them to their fullest."  
  
He tapped his finger against the table slowly, lost in thought. "And the Slytherins...this is all too easy for them, so it makes them somewhat hard to control." he paused. "They are contemptuous of anyone who doesn't understand the Game."  
  
"As are we all," interjected Snape. "That is not something restrained to students."  
  
"Yes, it is, and no doubt that prejudice will carry over into my teaching; but in order to defeat your enemy, you must first understand him. Anyone can learn hexes and curses, shields and wards, but it's more important to know how your opponent thinks, how they react - to learn how and why."  
  
McGonagall scowled. "You propose to teach them about Death Eaters. Their methodology and their ideology. They're children, Luc. They shouldn't be exposed to that...that evil."  
  
Luc shook his head. "But they were exposed to it, Minerva. Last year, at the Triwizard Tournament."  
  
She flinched, but acknowledged the point. "I only hope the board doesn't get word of this..."  
  
He grinned suddenly. "Relax, Minerva - I've got friends in high places, remember?"  
  
She sputtered. Dumbledore broke in soberly, reluctant to break the mood, but it had to be done. "I think that's exactly what we're afraid of, Luc. And that's exactly what we need to discuss." He combed his fingers through his beard while he thought. "Tell me everything that you know of the current situation, please - and perhaps, with Severus' information, we might be able to understand what's going on."  
  
Luc sighed, but nodded. It was time for serious talking. "As far as I know, most of the old guard have rejoined him - that is, those who are not in Azkaban and have not turned coat like myself. So we are talking about Goyle and Crabbe, Avery, Rosier, Wilkes, McNair, Parkinson...all the old names. There are probably others from overseas, and others who are too small in the organization for me to have noticed them before, but I would say that most of the people who supported him before have come back."  
  
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at Snape, who nodded, confirming the statements. "They have spies, I'm sure," he murmured in his velvet voice, "within the Ministry, within the Aurors, in other strategic places...undoubtedly within Hogwarts. By now they would have heard of Luc's change of allegiance, and Voldemort will no doubt make it an immediate priority to hunt him down and make an example of him and of everything and everyone he loves..."  
  
Here he looked at Luc, who smiled somewhat cruelly. "He can try," he murmured far too softly. "By all means, he can try his luck against me...no," he held up his hand, "it's not overconfidence. I've made preparations and arrangements. No member of the House goes anywhere without specially trained shadows, and the Dark Lord's inside spies are well and truly covered and nicely feeding him false information."  
  
"I'm not worried about the House," said Snape softly, quietly, intensely. He raised his black, black eyes towards one of the most beloved friends he'd ever had. "But what of the Malfoy?" His words fell like stones into still, still water - they had an intensity all of their own. Black eyes stared unblinking into silver - they spoke soul to soul, no masks, no camouflage, no dissembling. It was so intimate that it made Minerva uncomfortable, so much so that she had to look away.  
  
Luc's face was absolutely, utterly impassive. "If Lucius comes against me, I will kill him." His voice was soft, stripped of all its usual velvet civility to expose the iron beneath, and his words, too, had palpable weight. "He will never, ever have Draco." Silver, implacable eyes revealed the strength of will and the ruthlessness of twenty-five centuries of absolute power - and his next words shattered any illusions that he was in any way part of mainstream society.  
  
"I will kill him myself, if it becomes necessary."  
  
***************************************  
  
Harry and Ron, in the cozy, fire lit Gryffindor common room, idly discussed their day over a friendly game of wizarding chess. Ron was winning, as usual - but Harry was having difficulty concentrating, probably too preoccupied with the attack on the train yesterday to worry about chess.  
  
Hermione, in her favourite chair, was studying - reading the book Professor Malfoy had given them each that day, "Sun Tzu's The Art of War - a young reader's edition, with explanations and famous examples" - she had actually read the original, but hadn't been able to understand much of it at the time. Now she was puzzling through it, with a slight frown between her eyes as she read and made notes and fiddled with her quill. It was fascinating, but rather cold. It seemed to be something more suited to the Slytherins or to politicians and aurors than children - but Malfoy (the younger one, that is) had bitched that he'd had to read the real book in the original Chinese before he'd turned ten, and after that he'd been expected to discuss it intelligently and apply it to real life.  
  
Perhaps he was not as stupid as she'd thought...  
  
After his heroics on the Express yesterday, she'd imagined Professor Malfoy as a rather heroic man, brave and determined and, well, rather Gryffindoric. In the five minutes she'd spent with him on the train before the attack, she hadn't had the time or the inclination to get more than an impression of composure, of cool amusement, and of the respect with which Nick, Marc and Draco regarded him.  
  
But in the lesson today, when she'd been expecting a famous auror or at least a confident, courageous alpha male, she'd rather got the impression that he preferred intrigue to action, and mind games to outright conflict. He was a manipulator, a plotter - she could quite easily imagine him as a puppet master, pulling strings in the shadows...  
  
Oh, yes, he was an alpha male - there was no doubt of that - but he didn't act like any of the older students she knew as authority figures, or any of the male teachers. Of course, considering the male teachers at Hogwarts right now - old, wise Dumbledore was too old to be an alpha male, although he controlled the school well enough; he just seemed too old and too...detached from real life. Flitwick - well, Flitwick was...he was not a dominant figure, no matter how good a dueler he was; he was just too...small. Filch was a squib - end of story. Hagrid was...well; Hagrid was too weak, too nice...too soft.  
  
And that left Snape. Sour, bitter Snape, with his sarcasm and his insults, his temper and his melodrama - he controlled his classroom and his students with an iron fist, and his Slytherins, so unmanageable for anyone else, seemed to obey him without question. But even he deferred to Professor Malfoy, if not outright then it was there, perhaps even an instinctively. She thought that was probably because the Malfoy were the first among the High Clan - even now, in the tail end of the 20th century, that held weight. And probably more than in the Muggle world, seeing how old- fashioned the wizarding world was.  
  
And yet Professor Malfoy didn't lord it over Snape, didn't undermine his authority with the Slytherins - perhaps that delicate balance of power that she had heard Marc de Sauvigny call the Game extended to more than just politics and power...perhaps it permeated every aspect of their lives.  
  
She had been rather surprised when at their first DADA lesson he had talked not of curses and hexes, but of mind games - he hadn't ignored the practical side, every week he'd give them a list of spells, shields and counter-spells that he wanted them to learn by the end of the week - but he'd said he would teach them how to think and how to plan, how to anticipate the enemy's move and block it.  
  
And for this, he needed them to learn about the Death Eaters. Their history, their methods, and their beliefs - the Gryffindor students had looked stunned, the Slytherins were divided between outrage, fear and blank impassivity, which meant that they were hiding whatever they were thinking. Nevertheless, he had said, next lesson they would begin to learn about what had been plaguing their world for so long - and would be the better for it, Mr. Longbottom, because the unknown is always so much worse than the familiar.  
  
And that was that - the tai-pan of the House had spoken. She wondered how she had ever thought he could be in the least Gryffindoric. He was a Slytherin to the core - accent and manner, cool, mocking amusement and unquestionable authority all radiating the ideal of the High Clan that Marc had once described when he'd talked to her about his ambitions for the future.  
  
Luc was Marc's idol, but he was undoubtedly a Death Eater, or at least a former one - the Death Eaters on the train had recognized him and their faces, before he'd thrown a Killing Curse at them, had reflected relief that he'd come. Then the relief had turned to shock, horror, and outrage...when they realized he'd turned against them.  
  
She wondered how a man could be a Death Eater, an earnest Gryffindor's and a cool Slytherin's idol at the same time. Why, when the House had remained determinedly separate from their parent Clan, had they chosen a Malfoy as their leader? How could he be a Malfoy and a de Sauvigny too?  
  
How could he be so popular with mainstream society and hold so much power in the High Clan, when there was such a huge gulf between the two?  
  
How had he become a bridge?  
  
Perhaps he might have something useful to teach them, after all...if Voldemort didn't kill him first. Somehow she doubted the Dark Lord accepted traitors philosophically.  
  
***************************************  
  



	9. The Dangers of Emotion

Disclaimer – I don't own Harry Potter. Don't sue me.

CHAPTER 9 - THE DANGERS OF EMOTION

  
Far, far away from Hogwarts, in the deepest shadowed depths of the fens, the Dark Lord summoned his loyal servants to do his bidding and to hear his words. They came from all four corners of wizarding Europe - from England to Russia to Albania - and from all classes and walks of life.  
  
And first among them all was Lucius Malfoy - by virtue of his own power and ruthlessness and the status he enjoyed within the wizarding world. Voldemort would never have gained the following and the credibility he had enjoyed at his height had it not been for the support of the Malfoy - reluctant on the part of Marcus Malfoy, and wholehearted from Lucius. But that had been then, and this was now. He had no liking for Peter Pettigrew, who even at Hogwarts had been a snivelling coward, but it gave the Dark Lord much amusement to hold him above his former, most faithful servants. He encouraged division and quarrelling within the ranks - he fed on hatred and fear the way the Malfoy fed on lust...  
  
And Pettigrew, despite his privileged position, was completely terrified...terrified of Voldemort, terrified of the Death Eaters he so sneeringly lorded it over, and terrified of his former friends, Black and Lupin, who were just as hungry for his blood as the slighted Death Eaters. But Pettigrew, even in his fear, retained the native cunning of the rat he was in truth - he sat at Voldemort's side for more than just pettiness. He could evaluate and judge his peers - this one was too insolent, this one was too weak...this one was lacking in zeal.  
  
This one was disloyal...his gaze fell upon a proud, arrogant figure standing with all the confidence and sangfroid of the aristocrats Pettigrew despised but secretly emulated. He hated, yet he lusted after that white skin, that silver blonde hair and the scent, the maddening scent of sandalwood, always so tantalizing and elusive... He wanted to smash those silver eyes, which had mocked him ever since their first year at Hogwarts...  
  
Malfoy.  
  
Only the Lord had come - the other, the bastard, had turned traitor and run to shelter behind Dumbledore at Hogwarts. If Lucius thought the fact that he had stayed loyal would save his treacherous brother...Pettigrew giggled to himself, rocking back and forth beneath his master's stroking hand. Proud Lucius. Arrogant Lucius, who would never turn against his brother, no matter how vehemently he swore loyalty. Dangerous, intelligent, independent Lucius, who was a High Clan Lord before he was a Death Eater - Pettigrew knew how he thought, what he valued; well, well, well, they would test Lucius' loyalty, and see what there was to see.  
  
Loyal or disloyal, Lucius was bound by his own actions, by his own choices - and the Malfoy, the strong, powerful, influential Malfoy, would fall; one way or another, he would see them broken. Maybe then he would be able to exorcise those silver eyes, finally capture that elusive sandalwood scent...  
  
**********************************  
  
Lucius was extremely aware of Pettigrew's manic, intent gaze, penetrating even through the ivory mask and the hooded robes. Normally the thought of the rat, lost in the maze of lust Lucius had trapped him in long, long ago, which had been the last straw pushing him to betray the Potters, would have made him smile in malicious amusement. But that had been before the Dark Lord had returned, before Pettigrew had been placed above them - with power to dominate the Death Eaters not dominant enough to refuse him. He had never caused Lucius any direct trouble, but he had felt those eyes, watching him, following him, weighing him…just waiting for him to trip up and make a mistake.  
  
His instincts were screaming warnings at him, and had been ever since Luc had openly declared his loyalty. Now that everything was out in the open, their hands could be forced, and now, if he didn't take extreme care (and even, he believed, if he did) no matter which way the cards fell, House Malfoy lost...  
  
He cursed Voldemort. He cursed his father. He cursed himself, and his brother, and his ambitious ice-bitch of a wife who valued power and money above all else, who had been growing restless lately - and most of all he cursed Augustus Antoninus Snape, whom he blamed for anything and everything that happened since his father, so opposed to upsetting the status quo, had been _persuaded_ to change his mind.  
  
He and Luc should have taken longer killing him. Six hours had not been nearly enough...  
  
He had the feeling that everything could soon begin tumbling down around him while he watched helplessly, and that Pettigrew would somehow, somewhere be watching him, giggling and stroking himself, feeding off the sight of the mighty bought low so that the pettiest of scavengers could tear them apart.  
  
And enjoying every minute of it.  
  
But that would not happen as long as Lucius could prevent it. He still had some power, some choice - he was still the first, the most cunning, the most powerful, and he would never, ever bend his head to Peter Pettigrew. Still less would he allow...that...to ever destroy his family. Not while he was still alive.  
  
And perhaps, if he was willing to pay the price, not even after his death...  
  
************************************  
  
Severus Snape glided back into Hogwarts, a silent, ghostly shadow, black robes seeming to float around him, rather than billow as they did in the daytime, his ivory-masked face inhumanly impassive in the silver moonlight. He made no sound as he passed, but the corridors seemed a little bit colder, and a silent, wholly instinctive sense of danger accompanied him like an invisible cloak.  
  
This was not Professor Snape, snarky and sarcastic Potions master - this was the Lord of High Clan Snape, the Dark Lord's Chief Inquisitor, the merciless, conscienceless murderer who could and would kill cold-bloodedly for the sake of power and ambition. He didn't enjoy killing - that smacked too much of baser, vulgar animal desires which offended his academic sense of aesthetics. To him it was an intellectual exercise, which was perhaps more dangerous that animal passion. He was not emotional like the Malfoy – who, despite all their claims of complete impassivity, were in reality rather passionate beings who quite often felt all too much - he, as a Snape, could focus entirely on an intellectual goal and carry through with it no matter what it took.  
  
The Malfoy tended to bring emotions into it - such as hatred, pride, love, (yes, they believed in love) and all too often, this clouded the issue, leading them to overreact. Yes, they were quite remarkably controlled, quite strictly disciplined – but their very nature was passionate, intense, and they burned all too brightly, often burning themselves out with the strength of their intensity.  
  
His father had told him this, long ago, when he'd first met the two Malfoy brothers, and he'd seen the truth of it for himself over and over again. Marcus Malfoy had allowed himself to be forced into servitude to a half blood wizard because of his love for his sons. Lucius Malfoy had followed in his footsteps out of a desire for revenge against the Ministry, and his brother Luc out of desire for a lost lover, rather than for the ambition he claimed was the sole reason.  
  
The Malfoy, the oldest, supposedly coldest, most intelligent and politically savvy Clan of them all, could be manipulated through their love for their family and for their estate. It was all too easy, if you know which buttons to press. And having gone to school with two of them, having known them as intimately as it was possible to know another human being, male or female, being bound by them and binding them in turn – he knew exactly which buttons to press.  
  
Not that he ever would. Not now.  
  
Entering Dumbledore's office he found the headmaster and his senior staff gathered around him, awaiting his return eager for the news he brought; perhaps even one or two had been concerned for him as well. If so they hid it well - only Dumbledore's blue eyes, so wise and all knowing, and yet so clear and reflective, showed any concern or any relief at all. Luc had not even turned at his entrance, and was still leaning against the window embrasure and looking out into the night at Gods only knew what.  
  
Yes, Severus knew both Malfoy brothers intimately, knew their minds, their thought patterns and the way they played chess. Knew which buttons to press to get a knee-jerk reaction; but he didn't know the first thing about the deepest emotions of their souls, or what could make such an intelligent, analytical, brilliant mind stare off into the night absently, almost wistfully. He'd never been able to understand, beyond the love for family and estate and subjects, what emotions seethed beneath the calm, impassive exterior.  
  
But the Lady had known he'd wanted to, long ago...  
  
He made his report. Who had returned, who had refused the Call, who had hedged their bets, who had remained neutral. He mentioned the plan to liberate Azkaban, high on Voldemort's list of spectacular, demoralizing plans, and of Pettigrew's obsession with the Malfoy, and what exactly it might mean. He spoke of Voldemort's plans for any de Sauvigny caught in the open without protection – oh, Voldemort planned to make of his former favourite assassin a most educational example – and he spoke of Lucius Malfoy, who had been given the splendid chance to demonstrate his loyalty by bringing his erstwhile brother back into the fold, and his son too while he was at it.  
  
Watching quite closely he hadn't even seen the muscles in Luc's back flinch, or even react at all to the news that he had dragged two whole Clans into an all out vendetta with a Dark Lord; he hadn't even turned around. In fact, there was no indication at all that he had even been listening. That was the problem with the Malfoy - even knowing that they could be manipulated, knowing their weak spots, it was so damned hard to know when you'd hit a nerve...  
  
They had such good masks. He'd only ever seen unfeigned, spontaneous emotion when they'd given over all control and let the ardeur ride them; in fact, there had been one memorable occasion in third year, after their Head of House had been called away, and the Slytherin students had come out to play. Sex, drugs, alcohol and classical music...and crisp linen sheets, with cool limbs intertwined so completely they hadn't known where Luc and Lucius and Severus ended or where they began...the scent of sandalwood had hung in the air like a drug all of its own, intoxicating, provoking...maddening…  
  
They were generous lovers, both of them - the only thing Luc hadn't shared had been Kate. Muggle born, she'd been vulnerable in Slytherin; with a sister in Gryffindor and dating James Potter her position had been even more precarious. Only the protection of a Malfoy had kept her safe all those years; that and her natural charm and charisma - everyone in Slytherin had loved Kate, and they had every one of them mourned her loss.  
  
Even Severus, intellectual creature that he was, had missed her a little. He regretted her absence, as he regretted few things in life. She'd been so bright, and when she'd gone, she'd taken all the light with her.  
  
*************************************  
  
Luc dared not turn around to acknowledge Severus face to face. The emotions Snape regarded so scornfully were stirred up dangerously, clouding his reason and his ability to think at all clearly; oh, he knew well the dangers of giving into passion. They'd been drummed into him, as they were drummed into every passionate, intense Malfoy child who learned that it was not at all desirable to burn so brightly and so powerfully that one burned oneself out.  
  
Emotion clouded judgement. But emotion was the spark that made us all human; not enough and life was not worth living, too much and life was far too much. Emotion intensified power. A known fact - and the very basic premise behind the Malfoy cool mask; they never, ever became angry or enraged without the strongest possible shielding. It was far, far too dangerous to anyone around - the ardeur boosted by cold rage was bad enough, even if it was controlled. But boosted by uncontrolled, hot, mindless rage such as that of a young child – it lashed out anywhere and everywhere.  
  
There had been a Malfoy once, whose mother, while pregnant, had married another man, and the child had been raised as a Warwick, a prominent Gryffindor family. Not having had the proper training, he had allowed his emotions free reign, and just coming into puberty, when his body was changing and his magic with it, he had gotten very, very angry... Rage was a very, very dangerous thing. It destroyed composure, will, judgement, control, and it played havoc with one's life – it was far more trouble than it was worth.  
  
And this rage was beyond anything he had ever known.  
  
Imagine his surprise when, this afternoon, during the Friday 5th year Gryffindor/Slytherin lesson which focused on the practical rather than the theoretical, he'd felt the faintest stirrings of the ardeur. At first, taking it for Draco using wandless power rather than his wand, he'd sent a mild warning look his way. But no, Draco had been behaving himself; and there was no one else of Malfoy blood in this classroom, was there? Surely there was no one else of Malfoy blood in this whole school, let alone the classroom.  
  
Apparently not.  
  
Ignoring it, dismissing it, he'd gone on teaching, until he'd felt the faint scent of sandalwood again, felt the slight subliminal hum. Concentrating this time, he'd tracked it back to...Brandon Greyson. The American boy, whose mother was a Muggle and whose father was a stiff- necked fool who thought he could fight evil without getting his hands dirty. The black haired, grey-eyed boy who could use the ardeur...and yet, and yet, he was fifteen years old.  
  
Kate had died in their seventh year, when they'd been seventeen. Brandon would have been born when they'd been twenty or twenty-one, surely. Logically, Brandon couldn't be his son. The facts were too skewed. But the emotion that he'd been trained to ignore surfaced, raised its head. Instinct, which was more acceptable, screamed out in recognition. Like calls to like, blood to blood. Even Draco recognized it, taking Brandon under his wing and into his confidence in an astonishingly short time.  
  
Under the guise of helping with concentration, he'd held up his palm and told the boy to match and fit his own palm against Luc's. A fully mature man, Luc's hand was bigger, longer than the fifteen year old boy's, but the hands themselves – the fine, elegant shape, the long elegant fingers – were like younger mirror images. And more than that, there was a...buzz, a reaction when Luc fed ardeur out through his open palm into Brandon's hand. A recognition, a welcoming.  
  
Blood calls to blood.  
  
This boy was his. His mother, so Draco had said, was an English Muggle who'd gone to Hogwarts from 1971 to 1977 – her name was Kate. She'd been Kate Evans, once, of Slytherin house...and she had green eyes.  
  
But that was impossible. Kate was dead. He'd felt her die. He'd felt the soul bond snap.  
  
And then he thought back to That Night - the night when his whole world had shattered...and found a discrepancy.  
  
The sudden, rising force of the rage, coming up from his soul, from his memories, caught him by surprise, taking him unawares and almost breaking through the relaxed control of Friday afternoon's last lesson. His eyes had probably gone completely silver, feral in their intensity, his face rigid and masklike, and he'd almost crushed the boy's hand; from the look on his face, he had indeed noticed the sudden change of demeanour and been just as surprised by the cool, amused cynicism changing to fierce intensity as Luc himself had been.  
  
Only for a moment, but a moment was enough to shatter illusions, trust and a sense of security – Brandon had seen the darker side of his soul, and had been frightened to the very depths of his being.  
  
And that had only enraged Luc further.  
  
***************************************  
  
Snape mistrusted the way Luc accompanied him back to the dungeons. He mistrusted the cool nonchalance with which the tai-pan had acted all night, and he mistrusted the way the very air seemed to cool around him and begin to hum.  
  
Very definitely a Malfoy in the grip of some strong emotion. Not to be trusted.  
  
This was borne out when, as he made the fatal mistake of turning his back on the other man, an all too tangible force picked him up and slammed him into the door, hard enough to split his lip and cause his ears to ring. He felt the power, shaped by experienced will, craft aural, magical and visual shields around his quarters, blocking out any possible help from the outside. His door was hidden under layers of nasty warding spells already - Luc added a few of his own and activated them all on full strength. Slumped dazedly against the wall, he saw Luc squat down just out of arms reach, felt the invisible fist close against his windpipe and begin to cut off the air. Despite himself, he almost grinned.  
  
After they had gone to see the muggle film Star Wars as teenagers, on Kate's birthday, Luc had tried to figure out a way to strangle people with only magic, as they had all seen Darth Vader do; it had taken the combined expertise of all of the Lords of Slytherin nearly two weeks to figure out how it was done. After that, though...they'd lost nearly four hundred points that week alone. At the time, they'd all felt it had been worth it.  
  
Unfortunately, they'd developed the technique further, Luc especially, but Snape had never thought he would see it used on him by his best friend.  
  
"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" he tried to snarl, but could only croak. The invisible hand didn't budge.  
  
Luc smiled coldly. "Tell me what happened to Kate," he all but crooned. Oh dear, that was a bad sign...but what was he saying?  
  
"Kate died, remember? Black," he all but spat the name, "hit her with a bludger, and she never woke up."  
  
His eyes blazed silver, and with a wordless whisper the world exploded in pain. He would have screamed if he could have breathed at all. "Liar," he heard softly, the only thing in a world of pain.

"It's true," he breathed, lungs heaving. "You were there when she died."  
  
Pain exploded again. This was far, far worse than the Cruciatus; he knew what this was, if he could just get a slight respite to think...  
  
"Tell me," the voice repeated.  
  
"She died! You felt the bond snap yourself!" he choked it out desperately.  
  
"Then why is she still alive in America? Why does she have a fifteen year old son?" Again, the pain, but old training kicked in, and he ignored it.  
  
"I don't know what the hell you're thinking, Malfoy..."  
  
Standing up, Luc crossed over to Snape's own potions cabinet, selecting a vial of clear, transparent liquid.  
  
Veritaserum.  
  
Holding the potions master's nostrils shut he poured the potion down the man's reluctant throat, forcing him to swallow or choke.  
  
"What happened that night, Snape?" Oh, his voice was so very, very soft: not a good sign. Not at all.  
  
Overcoming veritaserum needed a cool, clear and collected mind - he was very, very good at it - but not when pain was constantly flooding through his veins like acid, and not when insidious whispers in his ear repeated the question endlessly, triggering the impulse to tell the truth, and not when the teasing tendrils of the ardeur tugged at his brain with sandalwood strings...  
  
He opened his mouth and just barely stopped everything from spilling out. "Bond...snapped," he gasped, almost hyperventilating.  
  
"Not good enough," came the voice, and the agony doubled in intensity. The voice was angry with him, and it reflected in the ardeur...images of pain and blood and torture flooded his mind - not his thoughts, not his memories. He tried to close his mind off, but magic forced it open, and an Other intruded, sifting through his mind, through his memories... Oh, it was so cold, he was shivering...where was Luc? Where was his friend, his companion, his lover? Why was Luc angry with him? What had he done? What was wrong? Oh, oh, it hurt...  
  
The voice came again, insistent, enraged, ringing and echoing in his head. "What happened that night?"  
  
As he braced himself for one last resistance, the pain peaked to an unbelievable high and his concentration was lost. He opened his mouth, and the truth came tumbling out.

"My father…" he whispered hoarsely. "He wanted her out of the way…"  
  
Luc's face froze. "And did you always follow his orders so faithfully?" 

The hoarse, bitter chuckles were terrifying. "In this, yes…"

"_Why?"_

The laughter intensified, rising until Luc slapped him hard, bringing him back. But even then, Snape's black eyes were filled with terrible mirth. Everything Luc had always known and never acknowledged about his relationship with the other man was contained in that look.   
  
Snape was almost gleeful as the past finally came out. "She woke up while you were sleeping..." he smiled nastily at Luc's dismay. "I told her that you were going to join the Death Eaters, and that you wanted her safe, somewhere far, far away – she was only too eager to sacrifice her happiness for yours..." He managed to sneer disdainfully even in his drug induced haze.  
  
And then came the cold, cold triumphant smile. "A little asphodel, a little wormwood…the Drought of Living Death was more than enough to simulate real death, and a conscious will snapped the bond - freely given, freely accepted, freely returned – and then a masterful illusion, if I may say so myself; and voila! Luc Malfoy, in his grief, turns against all that he could have been to wreak revenge and pain and death on his tormentors..."  
  
Luc's heart actually stopped beating, for all of five seconds or so. The tension stretched unbearably, and he struggled to hold back the rage so he could ask one more question. "Then how is that Brandon is my son?" He saw Snape slipping towards unconsciousness and repeated the question harshly. But Snape only smiled in feral mockery, laughed and said, quite distinctly, "All are punish'd", before relaxing, and fainting.  
  
For the space of about ten seconds, Luc remained still, on his knees beside the slumped figure of the man he had thought of as his best friend, while his whole world shattered around him and reformed crazily. Then he snapped, and the rage he had been holding in check for hours broke free of the chokehold he'd been keeping on it. The whole world went blind.  
  
********************************  
  
Two minutes later the red haze cleared from his eyes, and he looked about him bewildered at the complete and utter destruction of Snape's rooms. There was nothing, nothing that had been left whole - the potions cupboard was smashed, the potions leaking together on the floor, some hissing in reaction. The panelling was scored and splintered, and the furniture was shattered into small pieces of wood and material. The books had exploded; the smell of burning parchment reeked in the air, competing with the chemical smell of the spilled potions. All the glass had melted and had been reformed into crazy, unrecognisable shapes, and the only thing that hadn't been touched was the sprawled body on the floor, still lying where he had lost consciousness.  
  
Holding his hands to his face in shocked horror, Luc actually saw them tremble, felt them quivering as he clenched them into fists and pulled himself together. He hadn't done this since the night Kate had d- since Snape had persuaded her to leave. It was the very reason why the Malfoy never, ever gave into temper. It blinded them, took them over completely...turned them from thinking, reasoning men to beasts and animals that were a danger to everything and everyone around them.  
  
Just like he'd been tonight.  
  
At least he'd gotten part of what he came for. She was still alive. He smiled, slowly, dangerously. Very soon, she would be his again. Forever, this time.  
  
**********************************

** "All are punish'd" is from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. I thought it appropriate.


	10. Tension

Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. I don't own the ardeur. I don't own dranath. I don't own the concept of tai-pan. Everything else is mine.

CHAPTER 10 - TENSION

  
The next morning, when neither Luc nor Snape showed up for the morning meal, Albus went in search of them, only mildly concerned, in case anything should have happened to them. There was no sign of Luc at all, although Filch did say that he'd gone out very, very early and hadn't yet come back. He found Snape in his own quarters, after making his way through the maze of warding spells on the door.  
  
The room was a complete shambles, and for a moment he feared the worst - the Death Eaters had found out about his treachery, and they had attacked him in the very heart of Hogwarts - but he could see through an open door to a shrine, an alcove, an enclosure, where Snape knelt with his head down, arms outspread and robes falling in perfect folds around him, before an ancient, worn statue of the Lady.  
  
The High Clan believed there were three faces to the Deity, and usually they were feminine - the Maiden, the Mother, and the Lady, who was both destruction and rebirth personified. She had many faces, many guises, but the most particularly sacred one to the High Clan was that of Rhiyana, the Lady of Ravens.  
  
Not Rowena Ravenclaw, who had been a mortal woman, but the very Lady Herself - She was ambition and cunning and determination, loyalty and devotion and honour; Brandon Malfoy had taken Her as his patroness and his protector, and had been known as the Lord of the Ravens ever since. His Ravens, the warriors who had accompanied him through exile and into power in a new, unclaimed land, had also passed that reverence on, and She had become the Goddess of the High Clan.  
  
Dark haired, dark eyed, with the body of a dancer, Her eyes burned with all that was High Clan, and Her smile was everything that a Clan Lord's should be. Enigmatic. Powerful. Compassionate and merciless all at once; above this world and beyond petty concerns.  
  
Omnipotent and omniscient.  
  
Making his way quickly to his Potions Master's side, he fancied that he could all but feel Her gaze - he was not High Clan, but he was old enough and had seen enough to show the correct respect, even if She was not his Lady. As he came closer, he could see that Severus was shivering, shaking quite badly, as if he were suffering the aftermath of a very intense bout of Cruciatus...  
  
He put out a hand and touched his back, then jerked it back immediately, stunned, as Snape flinched wildly and all but threw himself away from the contact. The dark, dark eyes, normally so empty, were full of fear and pain and guilt and self-loathing and a terrible, terrible grief...so terrible that it wrung his heart.  
  
He had not seen Snape like this since he had come back to Hogwarts, begging Albus to look at him, see what he had become, and kill him, please...just make the pain stop!  
  
As he had longed to do back then, he came slowly forward, making no sudden moves, and laid his hand softly on Severus' cheek, sliding it around into his black, thick hair, and drew him into his embrace, resting the head on his shoulder. Snape's arms tightened fiercely around Albus, to the point of almost pain, but he welcomed it as a sign of Snape's trust and belief.  
  


He did not make the mistake of actually saying anything, of acknowledging the weakness Snape showed in any way. To do so would cause Snape great loss of face, and severely damage the trust he held in his old mentor - enough that he would show his discomposure in this way, that he would accept comfort, if it were carefully and tactfully offered.  
  
Even so, he would not reveal the source of his distress. Dumbledore was not High Clan.

  
Snape held on to what comfort he could, and clutched desperately at the bond - friendship and passion and love and suspicion and distrust and hatred - that was so strong that he had thought it could survive everything, and which could not, could not be completely destroyed, despite what he had said and done last night. Too much lay between them - too many years, too many secrets, too many memories.  
  
No matter what Luc Malfoy thought, no matter what he had said, such a powerful bond could not be snapped, could not be freely returned, not now and not ever. Luc could not walk away from him...but that didn't mean he wouldn't try to.  
  
Snape didn't care. Everything had a price. And the price for Luc's power, for his present status, for his happiness with his newfound family and his peace with his birth family, was entry to the Death Eaters and the lives Luc had taken in cold, ambitious blood. Had he not joined the Death Eaters, Snape knew Luc would not be nearly as powerful as he was today; he had known this, even at seventeen, when his father had first whispered the words and the plan in his ears.  
  
The price of entry to the Death Eaters was grief, and the desire for revenge, and strong, white-hot hatred. Once inside, all doors were opened, all the opportunities in the world were laid at the bastard Malfoy's feet - and all for the price of one Mudblood's continued existence in England.  
  
(And, yes, if he was honest, there had been other, far more personal and less worthy motives...but they were no one's business but his own).  
  
To his mind, the potential rewards had been worth the price, and more. But it seems, twenty years later, that he had misjudged whether Luc would have found it worth the price. He had the sinking feeling that he wouldn't have; really, Malfoy could be so emotional. It was really quite disconcerting, at times.  
  
Luc would come back. He had to believe that. Luc would come back.  
  
************************************  
  
However, about an hour after leaving Hogwarts, Luc Malfoy had been beyond any sophisticated logical analysis - all he could think of was the overwhelming pain he had suffered twenty years ago, and all he could concentrate on was on drowning it out with the best and oldest cures of all.  
  
Sex, drugs and alcohol.   
  
An ancient bottle of Ogden's - old, smoky, deceptively smooth - and perhaps even a bout or three of very wild, uninhibited sex; he didn't care about his partner, so long as they asked no questions and didn't mind hurting or being hurt. He was in a savage mood, and just drunk enough to indulge it fully. He was even feeling vicious enough to contemplate dranath - it would guarantee him oblivion after mind-wrenching, viciously primitive sex - at the moment, he didn't care about the consequences. Sex, drugs and alcohol - everything he'd warned the children under his care not to indulge in all at once. Any one of them separately, to be sure, but not all three together. Not unless you had a real need to put yourself through hell.  
  
To his thinking, this whole situation had called for it.  
  
So when Dumbledore tracked him down the next morning, he'd been completely unconscious in a strange bed, marked with the physical reminders of his darker sexual nature, and his two partners (one male, one female) marked as well. The distinctive reek of alcohol, and the less well known but equally unmistakable cinnamon smell of dranath had also lain under the smell of spirits and sex, and even Dumbledore could see that he was beyond awakening, at least for the next six hours.  
  
Frozen with dismay, disgust and disappointment, he'd left a message and had left immediately, going straight back to Hogwarts and the lighter, clearer world of the school, which, enlivened by rumour and gossip and teenage angst, bore no resemblance to the dark, sensual, dangerous world of High Clan politics.  
  
At least he understood the school.  
  
*************************************  
  
The children eyed the two empty spots rather curiously at breakfast. Snape alone missing the meal was common enough. Professor Snape and Professor Malfoy both missing it gave rise to speculation and raised eyebrows.  
  
Brandon refused the contemplate it, citing his conservative, upper class American mind as an excuse. Such things didn't happen in New England, or if they did, they were well hidden. Nick and Marc winced slightly at the thought, but said nothing - they knew Luc, and they knew enough not to question his actions or his decisions. Draco could imagine it all too easily - he'd actually seen them, once - his father, Luc and Snape...together, they were quite a surprisingly beautiful sight...and he knew Luc's desires and cravings, because he shared them, even if his were not quite so jaded, or so...dark.  
  
But he didn't think that Luc and Snape had spent the night together last night - whatever he had seen in Brandon (and Draco had his suspicions) it had upset him quite badly. He'd felt him leave the castle last night, and he hadn't yet returned...not unusual behaviour, normally, but these were not normal times, not when a shadow guarded the footsteps of every member of the House, and it was not safe to venture beyond the grounds of Hogwarts.  
  
He worried. Last night, he'd had a dream - it had had the unmistakable light of a true Dream, which had been a sign all on its own - that time was running out, that things were coming together and the final design was very, very unpleasant. In his dream, he'd stood before the Veil, the barrier that separated the Malfoy estate and lands from the rest of the world, and he'd put the palm of his hand against it to begin the spell that would part it, allow him entrance. But as soon as he'd touched the magical force, blood had started to seep out, as if squeezed from invisible pores...and he'd automatically brought the sacred wine to his lips for the smallest of curious tastes, and found it was a very well known taste...  
  
It was his father's blood, and it was flowing out of the Veil so fast that it coated him, his hands, his arms and his face...and it tasted like the sweetest, most glorious wine he'd ever drunk...  
  
He'd woken up almost screaming, breathing hard, to feel the slight burst of ardeur that meant his uncle had apparated away from Hogwarts, off to lick his own wounds in peace. Bringing his shaking hands up to his face, pushing the unruly hair back into its accustomed position, he hadn't noticed the liquid covering his hands, arms and face until it was too late, and he'd screamed...  
  
He'd managed to calm himself down almost immediately, but the dream remained in his memories, lurking in the back of his mind and begging to be examined, explained, catalogued and decoded.  
  
He'd pushed it back as far away as he could and ignored it. But it wouldn't leave him alone...  
  
********************************************  
  
Benjamin Greyson received his son's first owl of the year at the breakfast table, and with a smile on his face broke the seal to see what his son had to say.  
  
_...Dear Father_ (it read), _I hope you and mother are well, and send my best regards to both of you. Hogwarts is an amazing place - it's just as mother described it, even down to the prejudice and the rivalry and the plotting...the Hat, in all its curious wisdom, saw fit to place me in Slytherin,_ ("What?" shouted Ben, at the top of his lungs. "Slytherin?!") _but I have yet to see why. I have made a few friends, mainly Draco Malfoy and two sons of the House,_ (his father almost choked) _and have settled in nicely, as you said I soon would._  
  
_By far the most interesting class is the Defence Against the Dark Arts; our teacher, a Professor Luc Malfoy (does mother know him? Draco says they went to school together), emphasizes thinking rather than doing, the mind over the wand. He is teaching us about the Death Eaters,_ (Ben started spluttering incoherently) _which I find rather disturbing, but I believe he knows what he's doing. He does rather give the impression of omnipotence. He is a very dangerous man, who chafes at the necessity of hiding from the Dark Lord. There is indeed a temper and a well of passion beneath the cool mask, and I have the impression that something will happen very soon...  
_  
*********************************  
  


"Dark hair, dark eyes, and the body of a dancer" - from Mary Stewart's "The Crystal Cave". 

"Everything has a price" - from Anne Bishop's "Daughter of the Blood".


	11. Brothers

Disclaimer - I don't own anything. Don't sue me.

CHAPTER 11 - BROTHERS  
  


  
Lucius Malfoy was no stranger to the darker side of wizarding London - the Malfoy, both brothers, were well known on Knockturn Alley and the darker, unnamed lanes that branched off it into the shadows. While his father's interest in the Dark Arts may have been merely academic, Lucius had, in the course of an eventful life and a very misspent youth, amassed a considerable wealth of practical knowledge. Part of that knowledge, of his experience, was this house. You could find and buy absolutely anything in this part of London if you knew where to look, and if you were willing to pay the price, and that included oblivion.  
  
Gliding gracefully up the stairs to a discreet, unassuming and unremarkable door in a row of discreet, unassuming and unremarkable doors, he rapped twice and waited on the doorstep, feeling exposed and all too aware of the eyes watching from the neighbouring windows. This house was notorious - both to the Death Eaters and the Aurors - and he and Luc had been well known customers, once. He was sure the sight of both brothers visiting within twenty-four hours of each other had set several sets of antennae quivering...  
  
Luc would be here. He always came back here, eventually.  
  
The spyhole on the door slid open fractionally, and was immediately slid back - his fair hair and grey eyes were instantly recognizable, as was his motive for coming now. Rumour ran on wings on Knocturn Alley, and from there it ran throughout the whole High Clan - and vice versa. And Lucius had been coming here since he was seventeen, sometimes to sample the wares, more often to pick Luc up.  
  
The doorman, an old, gnarled man with white hair and rheumy eyes stepped aside to let him in, not saying anything, not indicating anything with eyes or body language - he'd learned his lesson since the first and last time he'd leered at either of the Malfoy brothers, neither of whom appreciated his comments, spoken or otherwise. Now he simply watched with carefully veiled eyes, waiting, growing more and more resentful towards the bright, brilliant aristocrats who thought they were so clever, so powerful, so invulnerable...a glance from cool, confident silver eyes ended his brief spurt of rebellion. No matter - their time was coming - the Malfoy couldn't stay on top forever, and when that day came...  
  
A cool, stunningly lush woman with ancient, cold eyes looked up from her circle of admirers and recognized him, deduced his mission, and without missing a beat inclined her head towards a discreet staircase leading up to private rooms. When she saw he had understood, she turned her attention back to her clients, reaffirming the enchantments that kept them captivated.  
  
The other clients, all of them High Clan or at least very rich, were all of them regulars at this house that had no name and other, like ones - they all had the jaded, feral eyes of human predators or victims, and they all recognized Lucius and, beyond the one, swift identifying glance, paid him no notice and went back to their own business.  
  
In this house, the only rule was discretion - you minded your own business and no one else's. It was safer that way.  
  
Up to the staircase and to the right lay a suite of rooms, done in discreet silks and velvets and satins, all materials calculated to increase the skin's tactile activity, and to appeal to all the other senses, all for the sake of maximizing pleasure and sensuality. However, to the left - to the left lay the darker part of the house, the rooms designed for those who preferred the darker side of sex, the more, esoteric and dangerous variations. Lucius could all but taste the cinnamon tang of dranath, and he tensed in instinctive revulsion - he'd been taught to avoid that taste, that smell, since infancy, and his one and only experience with dranath had only reinforced the lesson.  
  
Luc, however, had come back to it again and again, drawn by some sadomasochistic tendency to the painful oblivion it delivered, as well as the helpless sensual overload. Lucius knew he hadn't had it completely easy, growing up as a bastard son - when their father hadn't been around, a young, beautiful boy had been quite a temptation - but Luc's darker side had been kept under control while Kate had been alive; since she'd died, he'd been unconsciously punishing himself.  
  
Lucius didn't mind a little painful sex every now and then - it spiced things up a little, enlivened life and could make him forget his ice bitch of a wife - but he did prefer to wake up in the morning knowing exactly what went on with who last night, and without the splitting headache and uncontrollable nausea of a dranath hangover. Lately, Luc had been rather sober, refraining from anything self-destructive or anything that smacked of too much of the darker side of the High Clan - he hadn't come here in a very long time, and Lucius thought the suicidal drive of the years after Kate had died - the Death Eater years - had been replaced with responsibility and maturity since he'd become tai- pan.  
  
Something had happened to send him back here. And he intended to find out what and who was responsible, and make sure they paid...  
  
He didn't like seeing his younger brother unconscious in a notorious brothel, surrounded by whores of both sexes, glutted with dranath, alcohol and the ardeur which still lingered like perfume after the wearer has left the room, the marks of the whip and the cruciatus marking his white, white skin...  
  
There was a change in the atmosphere, in the lingering ardeur, that let Lucius know Luc was now awake and aware, even though his eyes were closed and his muscles still lax. Coming over to stand by the bed, looking down at Luc's face, the very mirror of his own but for the colouring, he saw the grey eyes, so like his own, open lazily, full of intelligence and power - there was no wariness, none at all.  
  
"So, brother," murmured Luc, feline in his mockery. "Have you come to kill me?" Silence reigned for an endless, eternal moment. Neither Luc nor Lucius were at all surprised that they were now on opposite sides. Lucius didn't bother to smile, didn't do anything other than steadily meet his brother's eyes.  
  
"Not yet," he replied. "Although it may come to that, soon..."  
  
"Ah...." Luc sighed. He stretched sensuously, displaying his lean, slender body, the white skin and the black hair, and the small, faded scar where Lucius, in a childish fit of pique, had hexed him, throwing him back through a glass window; he had a matching one, himself, where Luc had thrown a vase at him. And there, there on the left arm, on the white, flawless skin was the abomination of the Dark Mark, marring the perfect whole - it would always, he realized, remain as a blemish on an otherwise clean soul; the price of ambition, of power.  
  
The wages of vice - hidden, intangible, and far more lasting than worldly power and influence. It had to be worth it, otherwise there would have been no point.  
  
Unwittingly, or perhaps very perceptively, Luc spoke again. "I'm glad he's sent you, brother; you can claim it as your right as Lord - or did you surrender that as well, when you bent knee?"  
  
Lucius winced. That was unfair. "You know what we gave, and what we gained in return; at the time, we both thought it justified.  
  
"Once, long ago...but now? Twice?"  
  
Lucius said nothing. Luc didn't continue - wouldn't ask Lucius to come back, to join him - that would be an insult, as well as futile, a violation of individual autonomy that Luc, not being Lucius' Lord, had no right to commit...  
  
Lucius changed the subject. "Why?"  
  
Luc made no attempt to misunderstand. They knew each other so well, by now, that any deception was all too obvious. "What do you know of Benjamin Greyson?"  
  
Lucius knew his brother didn't carelessly throw out non-sequiturs - but he didn't come directly to the point, either. It was...discourteous. So he played along, shrugging gracefully. "An idealist, a dreamer, without the ambition or the strength to make his dreams reality." He flicked a hand dismissively.  
  
Luc nodded. That had been his reading of the man, too. "And yet," he murmured thoughtfully. "He has risen quite far..."  
  
"Oh, I'm not denying that - he's got talent, and he's got some charisma, an honesty....a sincerity." He paused thoughtfully. "But it's not enough. I would say that, rather than his determination driving him, there's a very gifted player standing behind him in the shadows..." Absently, he ran through the circle of his acquaintances to see who it might be. An influential American diplomat could be a very useful tool...but there was no one he knew who could be the puppet master. He looked to Luc, who was staring at him with unusual intensity.  
  
"Have you ever met his wife?" he asked, too softly.  
  
Lucius raised his eyes to Luc's, quite unable to mask his dawning suspicions. "Oh, yes," Luc purred dangerously. "I am reliably informed that she is muggle born, attended Hogwarts from 1971 to 77, and that her name is Katherine..."  
  
"And she doesn't go out into society," supplied Lucius slowly, "because she is indisposed; not one of us has seen her..." He looked back to Luc. "But how? She looked dead..." he cut himself off.  
  
"Snape."  
  
Luc smiled with terrifying gentleness. "Yes. Snape." He explained, and Lucius took a moment to feel sorry for their childhood friend, but then the implications hit him. Kate was alive. Luc's one and only weakness, beyond his blood family, was alive and well and married to a prime target for assassination - and now that he had this information, Lucius was bound to bring it back to his lord so that he could topple the House and the wizarding economy with it.  
  
A good plan, if it didn't involve Luc, and if Lucius' own finances weren't so much at risk; he'd have to see about transferring some of his money out, maybe even into the Muggle economy - their Swiss banks were one of their best inventions. And as for Luc, well - they were brothers.  
  
Could he betray his own brother? His mirror? His blood? No, of course he couldn't.  
  
In the Game, most things were fluid, variable, changing according to circumstances - but some rare things were absolute. A soul-bond. The Covenant between a Lord and his people. And a bond such as Luc and Lucius shared. Some things were larger than ambition, larger than the Game. In a shifting morass of loyalties, allegiances and deceptions, truth, lies and half- truths, the absolutes were sacred.  
  
And if he should forget in the heat of the moment, in the throes of a grand plan, then there was always the cold threat in Luc's eyes to remind him. Brother or not, Lord or not, bond or not - if he even gave a hint that he knew Kate was still alive, he would find himself destroyed more thoroughly than Voldemort could ever dream of...  
  
****************************************  
  
She stood at the window of her hotel room and looked out at the street below, watching the world go by while she remained still and static. She was not used to such inaction, to taking a back seat, but it was an unfortunate necessity at this time.  
  
It would not do to be recognized - it could ruin everything...  
  
She picked up Bran's letter again, reading the words over and smiling slightly at the thought of her son, her wonderful, sadly innocent son who had, despite all Ben's best efforts, not been placed in Gryffindor - she allowed herself a small thrill of petty satisfaction. She was only human, after all.  
  
She had thought he would find his way to either Gryffindor or Slytherin - he was intelligent enough for Ravenclaw, but without the detachment, and if he'd been placed in Hufflepuff, she would have been extremely surprised. Luckily, there'd never been much chance of that occurring. It seemed from his letter that he'd been heading headlong towards Gryffindor during his train ride - he'd fallen in with some older Gryffindor boys and had been quite taken with them - until the attack.  
  
Closing her eyes, she sent a heartfelt thanks to the Lady that Luc had been on the train at the time - oh, he'd always been the most capable and fierce of protectors, and she supposed that fifteen years of ruling the House had more than honed his skills. Certainly if the Malfoy heir was on the train, he would do anything to keep him out of the Dark Lord's reach, as he would do for Harry Potter, his unofficial godson.  
  
Briefly she felt a slight pang at the thought of James and Lily, whom she had never been able to properly grieve, and another at the thought of her nephew in Petunia and Vernon's clutches. But she was more concerned with her son than her unknown nephew - not that she wasn't worried, really - but she'd never met Harry, didn't know him and so, as a former Slytherin, didn't know what he was capable of, while she knew precisely who Brandon was.  
  
He could be just as great as his father, given the chance, and the right start - she'd tried to plant the seeds to push him into Slytherin, but came smack bang up against Ben's idealism and his ideas on proper child rearing, which did not include much discipline or shaping or intense education for children under ten, but rather an unwarranted emphasis on fun and play and recklessness...  
  
They'd engaged in a silent war for Bran's personality, and lately Ben had been winning - until something on the Express had changed him somehow, and pushed him over into Slytherin. And now, from his letter, it seemed he had a firm base, if he was accepted by the Malfoy Heir and the two dominant scions of the House.  
  
And now he could build on it, if his father wasn't brought down first, taking all of them with him when he fell.  
  
She would just have to ensure that that didn't happen.  
  
****************************************  
  



	12. Ghosts of the Past

Disclaimer – I don't own Harry Potter. Don't sue me.

CHAPTER 12 - GHOSTS OF THE PAST

  
Back at Hogwarts, Brandon looked down at the Hogwarts yearbook for 1977, a book that he now wished he'd never opened. In the interests of curiosity, his main besetting sin, he'd agreed with Draco that the coincidence of his mother's name was too interesting to ignore. It was interesting, oh yes...but he could have lived without that particular knowledge. The pictures of his mother (undoubtedly his mother) wearing Slytherin robes and hugging a teenage version of their DADA teacher - who was hugging her back as if he had the right - were all too damning.  
  
Ben Greyson's face was open, pleasant - he was sandy haired, with clear blue eyes and friendly features...his father had the same features, his mother the same colouring. Kate's hair was rich and dark, she was quite beautiful, but she didn't have the clear-cut elegance of centuries of selective breeding...and her eyes were green. But Lucien Brandon Malfoy - at fifteen years old, and even now - looked far more like Bran than Benjamin ever had, even allowing for shared features and Kate's blood. And the eyes, the silver eyes, were the key. Bran's eyes were the same colour as Luc's, as Draco's, and as Draco's father. It was undeniable - completely incontrovertible - and it was clearly impossible. Five or six years lay in between Kate's disappearance and Bran's birth...  
  
He wasn't sure that he wanted to believe the evidence of his eyes and his magic. Because it was true, no matter the fact that Kate and Luc had not met in twenty years, no matter that she had been wed to another man a full nine months before Bran's birth...  
  
He was Luc Malfoy's son.  
  
And that meant that his mother had lied to him, all his life; she'd known, surely she'd known of his paternity…of course she had, otherwise she wouldn't have tried so hard to ensure he knew something of the High Clan, of the Game. All those late night fights between his parents were now explained - her insistence on his extra education - the languages and the etiquette, the history and the philosophy, and most of all the discipline she had always expected of him and that he had always hated...  
  
She'd expected him, from a very early age, to be intelligent, articulate, and self-controlled, subtle, cynical, and self-reliant. He supposed she'd been preparing him for the day when he encountered the High Clan and the truth of his birth, but at the time he hadn't quite appreciated that...he'd been much too concerned with pleasing his father - the man he'd known as his father - by ruling his school and his classmates, on field and off, and sowing his wild oats, as his father had once put it.  
  
He'd been the perfect Gryffindor - popular and well liked, up to every challenge and dare, and too secure in his own immortality to even think the world was a dangerous place. A natural athlete physically, mentally and magically, he'd been successful at everything he'd turned his hand to, and he'd never thought of himself as innocent or, indeed, as any different from anyone else.  
  
The first time he'd met the true Draco Malfoy, he'd recognized the epitome of what Kate had tried to mould him into, and he'd been, despite himself, despite the scepticism instilled by his father's disparagement, quite impressed...perhaps enough of his mother's strictures on subtle authority and self-control had sunk in for him to appreciate just how much influence Malfoy wielded, and with what skill...but it had been purely academic appreciation. He'd not identified with Malfoy, not classed himself as one of "them" - he'd been an outsider, different from them with their High Clan ways and their Death Eater forebears.  
  
And now, it seemed, he was indeed one of "them", by blood, if not by birth and upbringing...and he could no longer hold himself aloof in his superiority. His father was not an influential Auror liaison with a spotless reputation; his family was not upright, sturdy and moral New England stock.  
  
His father was an ex-Death Eater, a bastard son who hadn't kept to his place but had taken control of a trading House (instant upper class disdain manifested) by murdering anyone else who stood in his way...oh, he knew there was no proof, but everyone knew it - just as they couldn't conclusively prove who'd slaughtered Caine de Sauvigny, his main rival and half-brother, but were all but certain that it had been Luc. He was a conscienceless, remorseless killer and he felt no regret or guilt for the crimes he had committed, but instead regarded them as the necessary price for success.  
  
His family...well, his family on his mother's side he knew - a muggle aunt and uncle and cousin, who, from all he had heard, were quite...well, vulgar was really the only word he could think of, no matter how top-lofty that sounded...and there was Harry Potter, whom he'd met once or twice and thought quite modest, despite his fame - or perhaps because of it. Had he not been a Slytherin, and Potter a Gryffindor, he thought he would have honestly liked him...  
  
And on his father's side - House Malfoy, the oldest, coldest and most powerful Clan in society, respected, or perhaps feared, throughout the wizarding world...notorious, throughout history, for their ruthlessness and their intrigues...more than capable of taking what they wanted through overwhelming force, they preferred the more subtle, less obvious methods that would draw less attention to their land and estates, and would deflect the more boldly ambitious warlords' greedy eyes elsewhere. Ruling through manipulation was much easier than ruling through force.  
  
As for the House, well, it was just as ambitious and ruthless as the Malfoy, with a past just as notorious, although it had been relatively clean since the balance between Slytherin and Gryffindor children had begun to shift in Gryffindor's favour - the stories about Jean-Marc's son Mikhail's...expansion...into Hong Kong had been legendary...and Luc's ascension had provided more fodder. How an unacknowledged, bastard son had even come near the seat of the tai-pan had become legend almost immediately after he took over, and it got wilder and wilder with the telling. He was ambitious, ruthless, and brilliant - his name was spoken with awe in the financial quarters of both Diagon Alley and Muggle London...  
  
So here he was, Brandon Greyson/Malfoy, with a mudblood for a mother and a "prince of the highest High Clan" for a father...the child of two almost opposite extremes.  
  
And the Lady only knew what that made him, or what he felt about it at the moment.  
  
As for how it all came about, what factors had led to this crazy situation...  
  
He closed the book slowly, shutting off the sight of all the photographs looking out on the real world, trapped in a happy memory or a triumphant moment of time - such as the 1977 Quidditch final, Slytherin v Gryffindor - a game that was legendary even now. He knew the story: Gryffindor's wonder team, the veritable Gods of the school, against the Lords of Slytherin, the elite circle of aristocratic Slytherin High Clan heirs - so completely matched that it had been more than three hours before, after a furious chase involving spectacular aerial acrobatics, Slytherin seeker Katherine Evans had finally snatched the snitch right out of James Potter's hands...and had received a bludger straight to the head, smashed deliberately and maliciously by Sirius Black...  
  
Only Dumbledore, the other Lords, and the former Slytherin head of house, Professor Carus, knew how close Black had come to death when Luc realized who had hit that bludger...  
  
So Kate had died, or disappeared, and everything had gone to hell after that. Within a year, Voldemort had become more than a crackpot nuisance, most, or indeed all, of the Lords had bent knee to the Dark Lord, and the world turned upside down and inside out.  
  
From talking to Kate, Bran knew that during their sixth year, the Malfoy brothers had not yet contemplated joining Voldemort's crusade – so what had changed in twelve months to see them both turn towards him?  
  
And he did know they were both Death Eaters, or at least they had both been, and Lucius still was - you couldn't stay for any amount of time in Slytherin and not learn of the affairs of the High Clan. Rumour ran on wings throughout the whole of the wizarding world, and Slytherin was a hotbed of intrigue, speculation, rumours and gossip – especially about the major players of the Game.  
  
As much as was known about them, there was much that was hidden, or that wasn't discussed, and playing without knowing all the rules and all the information was a major disadvantage. Such as the knowledge that he himself was now a very valuable pawn, and his mother even more so. Now he knew why the others stared curiously at him and then at Luc, why his unconscious use of his wandless powers, far more common now than it had been before he'd met Draco, caused others to raise their eyebrows in unspoken speculation.  
  
And possessing that small, vital piece of knowledge - not just supposition, but knowledge - he'd be able to contribute his own part to the Game. But he would be even more crippled if he only knew one fact, and not the vital background information – so  he asked. If he was, indeed, a child of the Malfoy, then he had a right to know, to understand.  
  
He would ask Draco.  
  
**********************************  
  
They were lounging outside on the grass, underneath some shady trees, watching the clouds in the blue, blue sky - at least Bran was, he rather thought Crabbe and Goyle were off in their own little world, somewhere beyond the ken of anyone who could think for themselves. Nick had closed his eyes and was lying, sprawled flat out on his back, 'meditating', and Marc, quite conspicuous in his red and gold trimmed robes, was nonetheless quite comfortably lounging with his head pillowed on Nick's stomach, also meditating.  
  
He had noticed that the Slytherins were quite unreserved about casual touches, between both male and female, especially when both were of an equal rank. Between Nick, Marc, and Draco, the touches bordered on intimate – he'd remarked on this, once, and Nick had only shrugged and said that the ardeur tied them all together, and touching reinforced it. He'd smiled with almost feral mockery, and added that sex reinforced it even more...  
  
Bran hadn't had the courage to pick up that gauntlet.  
  
Leaning back, lazy in the afternoon sun, he'd been thinking of the revelations of the morning, and about his father, Luc Malfoy, the tai- pan, and his rather…unusual relationship with Snape. He'd had the feeling that it all related back to the Death Eater days, running so deep it was still valid today - and that it could have a very significant impact on the war they all knew was coming. Incomplete information could be fatal...  
  
So turning to Draco, sitting cross legged in the lotus position, still managing to maintain an air of dignity, he stared at him until the eyelids had lifted in that blank, serene face, and silver eyes stared with mild curiosity into his. "Snape and your uncle haven't come back yet?" he asked almost absently, thanking his mother for teaching him tact and indirect speaking.  
  
For all his lessons, he was still only a learner - he hadn't had much practice putting his skills to use. Draco had been playing verbal games all his life.  
  
"No, I don't believe so," he murmured noncommittally, blocking the question.  
  
The look in Draco's eyes - dispassionate measurement - daunted him for a moment until he reminded himself that he, too, was Malfoy – for what it was worth, unacknowledged as he was. He squared his shoulders and met those Slytherin eyes steadily.  
  
"Do you suppose they're lovers?" he tried for shock value, this time, but was spectacularly unsuccessful - Draco's eyes reflected only amusement at Bran's frustration.  
  
"Not now," came the reply almost absently. At Bran's scowl, he gave up and laughed. "Not this time, and not for a while, from what I know..."  
  
Finally, Bran conceded defeat. "Why not?" He asked bluntly. The two de Sauvigny boys had opened their eyes halfway and were watching them both, veiled eyes amused beneath their concealing lids. They seemed to be indifferent to the conversation, but he noticed that they were concentrating beneath their masks...  
  
Draco smiled thinly. "Do you want the short version, or the long one?"  
  
Bran affected a bored yawn - not a particularly obvious one, because that would be rude, but a small, languid one. It was, he supposed, the equivalent of languidly waving his scented handkerchief, or taking a pinch of snuff... "By all means," he drawled in his best High Clan accent, as if he were affected with terminal ennui, "let us have the long version; I vow, we've nothing else to do today..."  
  
Eyes laughing, Nick reached over and swatted Bran's arm. "Respect your betters, Yank," he half scowled. "And besides, your accent is bloody awful..."  
  
Draco cleared his throat half seriously, and Nick turned his attention dutifully towards him. The look in those silver eyes was enough to quell any levity. "What you must understand," Draco's voice was now quite serious, "is that however many years ago, Voldemort was not nearly as feared as he is today..." he inclined his head in acknowledgement of Bran's half flinch at hearing Draco say the name so casually.  
  
"He was regarded as something of an eccentric, a crackpot guru much like all the other cultists who abounded in the Muggle world, living in communes and exploring their spirituality. His message of racial purity was seen as old and stereotypical, and his promise of a new world nothing more than any of the other would-be revolutionaries of the century had ever preached. He had very few followers, and they were only those with nothing to lose by going against the current authorities."  
  
Bran nodded - Professor Malfoy had been teaching all of this in DADA, but on a general basis. Here, he believed he was going to get a more comprehensive, detailed view...  
  
"One of his earliest followers was Augustus Snape, Professor Snape's father. Even then, the Snapes had little money and less legitimate power – they had just enough to get by, and maintained their status in society because of their brilliance with Potions; the Snapes have always been Potions Masters, going back to the very first. But Augustus wanted more than that - he wanted to wield real power, real influence, but couldn't do that under the current Ministry. Hence his devotion to Tom Riddle, a half blood son of a third rate House - had matters been otherwise, he would never even have spared the man a second glance."  
  
Bran smirked. Draco would never be accused of favouring class equality...  
  
"But to lend real credibility to his cause, Voldemort needed the support and backing of the powerful players, the leaders of the High Clan. He played on their prejudices, their grievances, their desires and their ambitions, talking of the pitiful economic climate breaking many of the old Houses, blaming it on the Muggles and their wars and secret weapons build up, playing on their fears of the Muggles rising up and turning against them, and promising them a return to the old days when the High Clan ruled supreme, without the interference of the peasants..."  
  
Nick nodded. "Tell them what's going wrong, what they should fear, and then give them someone to blame – it's how Hitler got into power, how he convinced an otherwise rational populace to do what it did."  
  
Bran raised a brow. "I thought you Slytherin elite didn't approve of anything to do with Muggles."  
  
Marc laughed softly. "Luc always says that as long as they're willing to give him money, he doesn't care whether the customers are Muggles, wizards or anything in between. The House operates fully in both the Muggle and the real world, and he deals with Muggles everyday; to do that, you have to know all about them and their world…"  
  
"A very practical man," mused Bran, mentally reevaluating his biological father.  
  
"Oh, yes," murmured Draco. "But then, he's had to be..." he uncurled from his lotus position and stretched out on the ground, crossing his hands under his head. "Gradually," he continued, "gradually more and more High Clan Lords and scions crossed over to his side, lured by the promise of what everything they wanted to hear, until really the only influential Lords not on his side were Marcus Malfoy, my grandfather, and others who were, in the larger picture, quite irrelevant – but the Lord of Clan Malfoy was the one feather Voldemort needed in his cap to convince all the doubters, and Marcus failed to comply."  
  
"What?" interjected Bran, thoroughly surprised. "I thought the Malfoy would be the first to join."  
  
Draco only looked at him, and Bran had the grace to flush.  
  
Ignoring it, the sprawled and supine Malfoy heir went on. "He had no need to upset the status quo - it was all too favourable to him as it was - but he had reckoned without Augustus Snape, who was bound and determined to see his Lord succeed at any cost. He'd already managed to secure Malfoy patronage for his only son and heir, who had now gained the friendship - if not the trust - of both the Malfoy brothers..."  
  
"He tried reasoning, first, and then bribes and promises. When that didn't work, he turned to threats, and finally to sabotage – some planted evidence, enough to bury even Marcus Malfoy, in the hands of an ambitious, well-connected auror with more zeal than sense, and no responsible Clan Lord could ignore such a threat. Conveniently for Snape, news leaked that this auror had important evidence about well-placed Death Eaters, and that the information would shock the wizarding world to its core. He did everything but outright accuse Marcus of being a Death Eater – certainly it was more than implied."  
  
Draco's smile was thin and strangely bitter. "My grandfather would not be bribed, or reasoned with, or threatened, so when manipulation failed, it was time for force. Marcus broke into his house the night before the release of the information, and found the auror dead in a most horrific manner, along with his family and his servants, and the information gone, with the Dark Mark in the sky above the roof. Two days later, he found out where the information was, and the price for its retrieval..."  
  
He broke off, flicking his hand. "I don't know the exact details, and I don't think there is anyone still alive, other than Voldemort, who still does; suffice it to say that things got worse and Marcus was drawn deeper and deeper into the shadows, until at last even his will was broken down and he gave in - and the Lady knows what threat prompted that - finally bending his will to the Dark Lord's. And then Snape's final revenge struck."  
  
Marc raised brilliant blue eyes to Draco's silver - they could have been limpid with mockery, and no doubt they should have been, had these been normal circumstances. But something of the story they were hearing had come through to them - the hopeless story of a man fighting against overwhelming odds and slowly being dragged under. It was almost Gryffindoric, really...  
  
"Marcus thought to turn traitor against his new Lord." Draco's voice was impassive and colourless, and his face was empty - all signs that what he was saying was affecting him deeply. "He set up a meeting with an influential Ministry member who trusted him enough to believe his word over the word on the street, saying Malfoy had turned, and could no longer be trusted. Somehow Snape got word of it, and sent word of his own to another foolish auror with more zeal than sense, advising him anonymously that a notorious Death Eater would attempt to assassinate a ministry member on that night, and to be extra vigilant..."  
  
Nick made an almost silent hiss as he realized where this was going, and a half instinctive avert sign with his hand, almost as if he could will away what was coming. But the lifeless voice continued.  
  
"There was indeed an attempt on the ministry member's life - unfortunately, the ministry member was killed and his house destroyed, along with the Death Eater, who was identified as a young sprig of an aristocratic Russian family, the overzealous auror and another, anonymous body that was never identified; and any witnesses to Marcus Malfoy's death and innocence were eliminated with one throw of the dice."  
  
He smiled mirthlessly. "But word spread quickly enough through the High Clan grapevine. It was the very next morning when the two Malfoy brothers were awakened to the news, delivered by a triumphant headline in the Prophet, that their father was dead and the Ministry suspected him of having close ties to the Death Eaters. They very nearly lost everything in that investigation."  
  
Crabbe and Goyle, who had been listening to this, blank faced and vacant eyed, suddenly chose to speak up. "I thought," said Crabbe with malice glinting in his rather small eyes, "that the Malfoy were all powerful and all knowing?"  
  
Bran, Nick and Marc blinked at this show of independent thought, but Draco didn't turn a hair. He had known of this, they realized. Had known that Crabbe and Goyle could think for themselves, and could pose a potential danger; he played a far deeper game than they had previously thought.  
  
Draco's eyes were utterly blank as he turned to face his two henchmen. He didn't bother to say anything, simply let his power flare slightly, let it brush tangibly against the air and the skin, alerting him to the level of his power, should he choose to unleash it. The reminder was hardly subtle, but clearly effective. Crabbe and Goyle backed down - at least for now.  
  
He continued on as if there had been no interruption. "The two brothers, already slightly disillusioned from the knowledge that their father had bent knee, although they had known it was coming for a long while, were quite upset by his death and the subsequent investigation - upset and outraged by both the elder Snape and by the Ministry..." he paused, reflectively, and then continued. "And then, almost a month later, Luc's only anchor, Kate, is killed by a bludger, leaving him quite undone..."  
  
Bran frowned. "But she didn't die," he pointed out, "she disappeared."  
  
Draco nodded. "I have always found that to be rather too convenient – perhaps there's something more to that, too. And then two weeks later, Augustus Snape was found, the victim of a slow and horrible death, exquisitely painful and quite imaginative..."

"There was no Death Eater retaliation?" asked Nick, always practical.  
  
"No," Draco said in bitter amusement. "You see, that was the price of my father's Dark Mark."

Dead silence fell. A line had been crossed, something put into words that had never before been said. Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater - they all knew it, but it had never been admitted openly between them.  
  
"Revenge?" ventured Bran, braver, or perhaps more foolhardy than the other two.  
  
"Is it not the new Lord's duty to properly avenge his predecessor's death? And to ensure the survival of his Clan above his own wellbeing? If he had not joined, Voldemort would have made short work of an inexperienced, sixteen year old boy; perhaps he thought he could keep himself aloof, and not be sucked under, once he had fulfilled his purpose for joining. Perhaps he knew exactly what he was getting into, and had decided to make the best he could of it."  
  
"And Luc?" asked Marc, fascinated and repelled by such coldblooded machinations, mixed with the passion that ran through everything the Malfoy did. The key, he supposed, was to harness it...  
  
"Luc knew exactly what he was getting himself into, and was more than willing to pay the price; of course, there were easier ways of eliminating the competition for tai-pan, but none so quick or so...sure. And there was the extra bonus of another revenge - against Snape, yes, I'm quite sure that he was in on that - but also against Black, against the Ministry who had so callously invaded their grief and their mourning, against the whole world now that there was nothing but cold ambition to live for..."  
  
"Why not against Voldemort, who started the whole process?" asked Bran, the outsider who saw clearly to the heart of the matter.  
  
"Ah, now that is the point: you see, they could achieve revenge against Snape, and against the Ministry, and against the rest of the world, if they took the Dark Mark. If they went up against Voldemort alone, especially then, then perhaps they would have died, and the Malfoy line with them. Perhaps it would be easier to do what could be done and to leave other, larger, more difficult considerations for later, when they were stronger, more sure of themselves."  
  
"They are stronger and surer now," said Nick quietly. "But why has Lucius gone back?"  
  
Draco sighed, closed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't know," he murmured finally. "I honestly don't know." But looking into those eyes, Nick saw the deception there, saw the lie at the bedrock of the half-truth, and wondered just what Draco was playing at. The other two, Bran and Marc, not being so familiar as Nick with Draco's moods and expressions, saw nothing amiss, but to Draco's right hand, there was just the slightest hint that something was wrong, that there was something left unsaid, something very, very important.  
  
As they got up off the ground, groaning good naturedly about tired muscles and old age, the intensity of the former conversation was lost, and they reverted back to fifteen year old boys. But still, not looking behind them, they were not aware of the calculation deep in the usually blank eyes of Crabbe and Goyle, who had been told to watch out for signs that the Malfoy were considering any disloyalty...  
  
Only Draco knew. And he had been ordered to plant the seeds himself, and then to let them grow...and then to ignore them, when the time came...He hoped his father knew what he was doing.  
  
**************************************  



	13. The Lord's Masks

A/N - I am a law student. I have no idea how a business is run. My apologies for any huge mistakes.

Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. Don't sue me.

CHAPTER 13 - THE LORD'S MASKS  
  


  
The headquarters of the House of de Sauvigny were located in the border between wizarding and Muggle London, where the great Jean-Marc de Sauvigny had first established his trading House two hundred and more years ago. Since then, it had grown into an international empire, spanning most of the globe, existing simultaneously in both the wizarding and in the Muggle world.  
  
After all, Muggles spent money just as readily as wizards did, and there were much, much more of them. The latest tai-pan had adopted this approach - being a deeply pragmatic man, he'd seen the benefits and had embraced his dual role with rather more enthusiasm than some of his peers thought necessary, or even seeming.  
  
They said he consorted too much with Muggles, was too friendly to Muggle- lovers and half-bloods. He'd only laughed and said that the Muggles had more money, and better ways of managing it. And if anyone had a complaint, they were welcome to address it to him personally...and to answer for it, if he thought it justified.  
  
He'd settled down somewhat since he'd become tai-pan, they said - oh, yes, he'd been wild back then...was still wild now, if it was called for. He hadn't buried everything that had brought him so far so fast - he'd simply pulled a more...acceptable mask over the true face of Slytherin ambition, and had partly fulfilled the need that had driven him to use it. Responsibility and the challenge of his position had given him maturity and purpose; a real family had given him stability.  
  
And the power had given him the added lustre of being more than Malfoy's bastard brother.  
  
In the fourteen or fifteen years since he'd become the leader of the Clan, since he'd taken on the responsibility of his suddenly orphaned nephew Marc and his much, much younger half brother Nicholas, he'd turned himself inside out to gain acceptance and be welcomed in polite, non-High Clan society, and had learned to function and succeed in the alien, Muggle world. He'd abandoned the more overt signs of his High Clan heritage and had learned to employ moderation and conformity - and he'd quietly, subtly grown in power and influence until he was, finally, one of the major players on the board - powerful enough that nothing and no one would ever touch him again.  
  
He'd become the tai-pan, instead of the bastard Malfoy.  
  
And, as tai-pan, he had certain responsibilities - he was bound to appear at the emergency board meeting he'd ordered two days ago, when he'd first had confirmation that the Dark Lord was targeting the House. The fact that he was hung over, nauseous, unshaven and in considerable emotional shock was immaterial - he was the tai-pan, and it was his duty to lead the Clan through these dangerous times and into better, more peaceful ones.  
  
No matter that he wanted to curl up in the shadows, to find oblivion again, to smash something, anything to relieve this pain slowly boiling over inside; he was the Lord, and the Lord was above such self-indulgent things as self-pity or apathy...the Lord acted for the good of the Clan, always, and was more than able to handle anything the world could throw at him and the Clan, no matter how he was feeling at the time.  
  
The Lord could handle anything and everything, he always had the solution, he was perfect and invulnerable and far above mere mortal men.  
  
The Lord is wed to his land, and the land is wed to him...  
  
And so, because of his duty, because of his love for his family and his family's love for him, because of his responsibility and the discipline ingrained in him since childhood, he fought his way free of his sleeping companions, donned his robes, and all but staggered out of the door, down the stairs past speculative, calculating eyes, and into the street, where he leaned sickly against the brick wall.  
  
It took a superhuman effort of will to control his heaving stomach.  
  
What would Lucius think of him now? He vaguely recalled talking to his brother, asking if he was going to kill him, but as soon as the adrenaline rush had passed and clarity of thought was no longer needed, he'd fallen back into his incredibly reckless alcoholic and drugged stupor, and had passed out again.  
  
No doubt Lucius would raise an eyebrow, look down his supremely superior nose and say nothing, letting his very silence speak for him instead - the man was a master at such subtle games, most of them petty but effective. He could all but hear the cold voice, coolly arrogant, not amused but cynical, expressing his well bred surprise at his presence here outside this house, instead of at his own board meeting. (What are you doing here, Lord of the de Sauvigny? Do you not know that grave danger knocks at your gates even now?)  
  
He hated it when Lucius was right. Lady, Lady, Lady, he was such a fool...  
  
With no time to do anything more than wash his mouth out and run his hand through his hair, he transfigured his robes into formal muggle wear, despairing at the crushed material, and then apparated silently, discreetly, to the back of a marble-fronted brick building in central London.  
  
The de Sauvigny crest was discreetly displayed near the front gates that were opened at his approach - discreet bellmen, impassive in their uniforms, forbore to greet him as they saw his dishevelment and his eyes, instead opting for a slight bow, hoping he wouldn't notice them.  
  
No one wanted to be noticed by the tai-pan in this mood...  
  
Wearing a black dress shirt, jacket and slacks, with his black hair mussed and his eyes shadowed, he moved through the building, spreading wary silence behind him as he went. Every move was smooth, every glance terrifyingly neutral, every action calculated...unconsciously, all the employees in the building, both wizard and muggle, watched him cautiously, sensing the threat lying under the normally smooth façade, closer to the surface now than it had been for a very long time.  

Normally when he walked into the House's headquarters, he had a word for all the employees, greeting them by name, talking to them of their work, of their progress...but today he stalked straight to the top floor, enveloped in a cloud of cold, cold silence.  
  
No one was foolish enough to draw attention to themselves.  
  
***************************************  
  


Inside the old, wood panelled conference room, with its air of respectful, awed silence, the members of the board could actually feel their leader before he arrived. There were twenty of them - ten wizards and ten Muggles - a wizard and a Muggle pair managing each of the nine zones of the House (England, Asia, Eastern and Western Europe, the Middle East, Africa, North America, South America, and Australia), and Luc's right hands, his main advisors in the wizarding and Muggle worlds.  
  
Every one of the wizards on the Board was of de Sauvigny blood, but the muggles had been handpicked and hand trained by Luc - they were utterly, completely loyal, and would theoretically balance out any ambition or disloyalty in the direct scions.  
  
Luc controlled the whole, keeping his finger on and regulating the heartbeat of the House through fortnightly reports from his managers, and with his shadows who, if necessary, could act in his stead in situations where direct intervention could be...difficult.  
  
All twenty in the room knew each other well, and, knowing their leader, they exchanged concerned looks when they felt him coming, felt the cold anger and the unconscious leakage of power that was normally tightly shielded.  
  
Something was wrong.  
  
When he entered the room, they knew it for certain. Normally the most composed of men, always well groomed and well elegantly dressed, he was unshaven, rumpled, and quite alarmingly pale...he had faint smudges under his eyes, which were still slightly dilated and a little glazed.  
  
Dominic de Sauvigny, the wizard manager of North America, wondered just what had affected Luc so badly that he resorted to drink and, yes, drugs, to solve it - he hadn't seen the man this discomposed since...well, since a very long time ago. Having gone to school with Luc, through seven years at his side in Slytherin, enduring the prejudice and fear of the wizarding world - it had been even harder for Dominic, who had been born of Gryffindor parents into a predominantly Gryffindor family - he knew that Luc had had his share of bad times along with all the good.  
  
But very, very rarely had he ever resorted to artificial methods of reaching oblivion. In fact, come to think of it, the last time he'd been this upset had been just after Kate had died.  
  
Teaching at Hogwarts must have stirred up some old memories, along with the very nasty hornet's nest they found themselves in now. It was true, what the old saying said - eventually, all your actions and your choices came back to you. And they were coming back on Luc and all who had supported him with a vengeance.  
  
Dominic had been one of the first to willingly forsake Caine, the rightful heir, for Luc. He'd entered Hogwarts as a painfully naïve boy, his cousin Michel with him, certain they'd be sorted into Gryffindor, and had been shocked to suddenly find themselves wearing green and silver. They'd have been dragged down within the first month if Luc hadn't taken an interest in them - no doubt he'd seen them as his first converts...slowly, they'd come to see the advantages of Luc as tai-pan, and slowly, they'd come to the point where they would both of them kill to see him there.  
  
Dominic had killed, willingly and knowingly...he'd torn his own family apart to see Luc as tai-pan, to place him there instead of golden-haired Caine. He'd torn his own soul apart, to see the House rise again, to see it once more as it must have been in Jean-Marc's time, one of the first of the High Clan, spanning the entire British Empire on which the sun never set...  
  
He hadn't joined the Death Eaters. At least Luc hadn't asked that much of him - to this day, he still didn't know whether he would have taken the Mark if Luc had asked. He suspected, in the deepest part of the night, that he would have - oh, Lady, he would have done anything, anything... Slytherin's golden child, Luc with his shadowed eyes and his shadowed soul, his rueful smile and his passionate dreams, had such a hold over him, over all of them, that he'd have killed Caine himself, if he had to...  
  
And as for Michel - sensitive, dreamy Michel, who'd never seemed fitted to Slytherin - Michel had been just as captivated by Luc as Dominic, but it had been more of an intellectual fascination. He'd been fascinated by the mind, not the vision - and that curiosity and Michel's uncanny gift for insight had seen him rise to become Luc's wizard right hand. And that insight, driven by loyalty, inspired by the sheer scope of the undertaking had led him down the road to hell when he'd used it to help Luc drive the House apart, ambitious against conservative, Slytherin against Gryffindor, Luc's followers against Caine's - oh, they'd brought the whole Clan to its knees and rebuilt it from the ground up. And in the doing, both he and Michel, and all the others who'd helped, who'd believed, who'd killed, had bound themselves so securely to Luc's star that there was no separating them - if he fell, so did they all, and the House with them.  
  
Sheer will had broken it, sheer will had built it up again, and now only sheer will could keep it from total destruction.  
  
But that was the problem, he supposed, when they relied so heavily on one man. That one man's choices came back to haunt them all.  
  
************************************  
  
Looking around the long, wooden table, Luc saw the ruling body of the House, his cabinet, one supposed, looking right back at him. Ten of his cousins, who had all stood with him during his takeover of the House, all of them bound to him now, just as surely as they had been when he'd been twenty-two. Ten Muggles, hand picked and hand trained, let into the secret of the wizarding world, but who functioned mainly in their own world. They all owed everything to him, and knew the consequences of disloyalty.  
  
Guided by him, they ruled the business. He alone ruled the family, and that was with velvet gloves...he'd learned, over the years, that the less direct force applied, the more manageable his unruly, independent family members were. Most of them being Gryffindors, even now, they tended to rebel against direct authority - any interference in their lives, unless they expressly asked for it, tended to cause resentment...  
  
He'd found it very different from his own family, the Malfoy - perhaps because the House was predominantly Gryffindor, perhaps because there were simply more of them, and they were scattered all over the world, let alone Britain...the Malfoy had always been a very small Clan, usually only the Lord and his Heir, with maybe a brother or two...daughters were very, very rare.  
  
Taking over the House had only been the first step.  
  
And now, for the good of the whole, he'd have to display the iron fist beneath the velvet - he'd sent out the word, as soon as he'd woken up after the attack on the Hogwarts Express, that all the scions were to have discreet shadows, but he feared that would not be enough now.  
  
Hence this emergency meeting.  
  
The reports came in, from all over the world, from all zones. Branches of the House, both the business and the family, had been attacked - in some places almost destroyed, in others barely damaged, thanks to timely intervention. His Muggle managers, perhaps not fully grasping the situation, talked of random, or not so random, terrorist attacks - the wizards knew better and eyed him askance, as if knowing full well that his actions had brought this down on them.  
  
In a way, he had - but it would have come anyway. The House was the single largest trading house in the wizarding world, one of the largest in the Muggle world - certainly, they were one of the largest contributors to wizarding and Muggle England's economy. Bring the House down, whether the tai-pan is a renegade traitor or not, and you can seriously damage the economy with one stroke...  
  
The knowledge of his former allegiances would only be useful as a wedge - drive the House and wizarding society against him, and perhaps he would be removed, eliminating him from the picture, along with any and all resistance he could offer, without a single curse being cast. His successor was a fifteen year old boy - untrained and untried - he would be either a puppet or an easy opponent.  
  
Luc knew the House would stand with him, as they had done fifteen years ago. But the rest of society, however...  
  
As he thought, the reports continued. Attacks on the branches, attacks on the various houses owned by the family around the world, assassination attempts luckily foiled by the shadows, death threats - and a run on their stock that had pushed share prices lower than they had been in years...that was a worry they would have to look out for.  
  
Somewhere, Voldemort had gained a supporter who understood the Muggle Stock Market. It seemed another Muggle company, backed by a Death Eater or not, was trying for a hostile take over...they would have to fight on both fronts, meaning they would have to divert important resources from either of the fights when they would most be needed.  
  
The reports went on, the managers speaking more and more warily as his face became impassive, his eyes cooler and cooler, his demeanour subtly changing, the force and will he had had fifteen years ago becoming more and more apparent as the already strained mask of normality was stripped away.  
  
Slowly, Luc was reaching deep within himself to find the strength he would need for this fight, the strength and the belief of fifteen years ago and had buried deep in the hope it would no longer be needed. As he reached deeper, as he cast away the reserved, mildly authoritative mask he had used as tai-pan, he found himself becoming more and more Lucien Malfoy, the intense, predatory, ambitious man who had clawed his way from bastard son to Clan Lord on nothing but charisma and determination.  
  
Now he had to stay Clan Lord no matter what Voldemort tried to throw at him, keep his whole family and the students of Hogwarts safe, keep Lucius from killing him (whether willingly or not), eventually defeat the Dark Lord, and finally, stop a godsdamned run on his shares.  
  
A Clan Lord's work was never done.  
  
**************************************  
  
Inside the Ministry, an anonymous packet, delivered by an anonymous, unmarked owl, found its way to Benjamin Greyson's desk. A conscientious worker, Greyson was hard at work when it was handed to him, so after he finished his reports, he turned his interest towards the packet.  
  
There were no markings on it, other than his name and where he could be found - mildly intrigued, but wary of any traps, he checked it first. There was nothing dangerous in this packet - well, nothing overtly dangerous, anyway. What was contained in the sheaf of paper was another story.  
  
Slitting it open, he took it out and couldn't control the way his eyes widened when he skimmed through the papers. Did he say that there wasn't anything dangerous in this packet?  
  
Had he been anything like the Death Eaters he hunted, no doubt he would have chuckled evilly...but he hoped he had more self-control than to act in such a clichéd manner. Instead, he settled for a small, mirthless grin, his honourable nature momentarily overwhelmed by a feeling of triumph and almost unholy delight.  
  
At last, he thought grimly. At last, just what I was looking for.  
  
**********************************  
  
Back at Hogwarts, recovering in his chamber deep in the depths of his familiar, safe dungeon, Severus Snape clutched at his arm, hissing in pain and surprise. So soon? He had at least thought they would have time to fine- tune the prospective plans... Quickly, moving before the ache could build into agony, he moved up the stairs and out of the castle, squinting in the blinding sunlight, and into the cool darkness of the Forbidden Forest, before apparating to meet his fellow Death Eaters at the agreed rendezvous point.  
  
He didn't notice the four children seated under the trees watching him curiously, calculatingly - or the other three he had passed, speculating as to what exactly had happened to put him in such a lather.  
  
He didn't notice them follow him until it was too late, until they had all seen him push up his sleeve to clutch again at the Mark, until they were curious enough to wonder just what Voldemort wanted on a Saturday afternoon, and at Diagon Alley, as they (a/n conveniently) heard Snape muttering to himself. The fact that Snape was a Death Eater had come as a surprise to only three of them - Hermione, Ron and Brandon's more jaded companions had, not being shocked, seen more into the implications, and were worried.  
  
Luc was out there on his own, no doubt somewhat discomposed, if what Draco, Nick and Marc suspected was correct...Harry was simply curious because he was a Gryffindor, and after four years fighting Voldemort had developed the idea, no doubt driven by guilt, that he had a responsibility to thwart Voldemort's schemes wherever and whenever he could.  
  
Worried about their uncle, or about Voldemort's newest victims, neither group stopped to think about the consequences...two groups of children, separately, because neither was aware of the other's existence, quickly made their way back to the castle and headed for the nearest fireplace connected to the floo network.  
  
**********************************  
  
Lucius Malfoy shut his eyes slowly, painfully. It had begun - and now he would have to choose. And this time, he wouldn't have the luxury of avoiding the consequences of whatever decision he made here...  
  
Neither outcome was particularly palatable. He would simply have to choose the outcome with the most advantageous consequences, the lesser of two evils...  
  
*************************************  
  
Knocking timidly, an aide came in and whispered in Luc's ear, delivering a handwritten letter bearing the Ministry's seal - more specifically, the seal of the Minister of Defence. Expressionless, he opened the letter, and showed no reaction at what he saw within - but Michel, who knew him very well after all this time, could see the almost imperceptible dilation of the pupils denoting shock and anger...  
  
Folding the parchment up, tucking it into his jacket, he rose from the table gracefully and with a cool, appraising glance at all around it, dismissed them with a nod. He was standing at the window and staring out at the street below, hands loosely held behind his back, when Michel, the last man out, looked back one last time before closing the door.  
  
The Clan Lord was invulnerable. Then why did Luc look so bowed?  
  
Sensing Michel's gaze, he turned around, grey eyes steady, and smiled mockingly, much as he had done so many times at school. Really, Michel, it seemed to say. How could you doubt me? Of course we'll come through this. Am I not invincible?  
  
The Clan Lord was back. And because he had believed it before, and his faith had been justified, because he felt he had to believe it, because he wanted to believe it, Michel felt comforted by the sight of those confident grey eyes and the half smile.  
  
Of course they would get through this. Was Luc not invincible?  
  
****************************************  
  



	14. The Beginning of the End pt I

Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. Don't sue me.

CHAPTER 14 - THE BEGINNING OF THE END pt I  
  


  
There was only one fireplace in the whole of Hogwarts that gave out onto Diagon Alley, and Harry, Ron and Hermione came face to face with Draco, Nick, Marc and Brandon when they arrived at the fireplace in the third floor dueling corridor. Eyeing each other warily, they decided that they were in too much of a hurry for the obligatory spat, and so agreed to wait in line for each other - in fact, Draco and Harry went together, because they couldn't agree who would go first.  
  
When they came out on the other side, they found Lucius Malfoy waiting for them.  
  
"Hello, children," came the soft, aristocratic voice - very much like a cat, playing with a mouse, sure of its victory.  
  
*********************************  
  
The rumour seemed to have gone out from the Ministry of Defence, out onto the street, and from there through the whole of the London shopping district. As he passed, Luc could feel eyes following him, watching, judging...word was that the tai-pan had been called in to the Ministry, that the aurors had found solid proof of his actions and his crimes.  
  
They came out to watch, to bear silent, respectful witness - to see the tai- pan walk through the streets and to his possible doom. Some of them would be gleeful, delighted to see him brought down, and others would be secretly hoping for his acquittal...but no matter what they thought, everyone had an opinion.  
  
Either they loved him or they hated him, but no one was indifferent to him - he took a perverse pride in that fact.  
  
*********************************  
  
Snape cursed viciously under his breath. Of all the possible times for this call to come...he was not prepared for this, not prepared for what might come of it. For what would inevitably come of it.  
  
For years, he had thought of the first time he had given into temptation and allowed his uneasy alliance with the Malfoy brothers to progress to a higher, more intimate level, as probably the worst mistake of his life. It had bound him to them, body and soul - but he had never thought that it might work in the opposite direction, too.  
  
Perhaps, just perhaps, the physical act and the magical power it produced had bound them to him, as well. Perhaps just as he had never been able to forget them, to let them go, they had never been able to let him go, either?  
  
He'd lied for them both, when he'd turned himself into Dumbledore and had begun to play informer. He'd said that he couldn't recognize any individual Death Eaters, such as Lucius, under their masks and robes, and he'd flatly denied any knowledge of Luc's involvement in Caine de Sauvigny's death.  
  
It had only been recently that he'd thought of their actions towards him - he'd begun to have suspicions that they, in turn, had known full well he was a spy and had covered for him when he slipped...  
  
But even that was not enough. Too much lay between them - his father, their father, Kate, Voldemort...too many lies, too many hatreds, too many shadows. Too much sex, too much intimacy, too many memories...it was a tangled trap that had bound both of them in silken, drugged webs stronger than steel, stronger than his own guilt and self disgust and hatred.  
  
No matter how strong their ties, he had an obligation to fulfill, a debt to repay - his duty to Hogwarts and Dumbledore outweighed the bond between he and the Malfoy...  
  
He had to go through with Voldemort's plan, and hope that they could come out of it alive, and that when it was over, the already strained relationship would not be shattered beyond repair.  
  
He didn't have enough friends that the loss of Luc and Lucius would not be felt...  
  
**********************************  
  


Harry Potter regarded Lucius Malfoy, tall, aristocratic, feline and far too amused for his liking with acute suspicion and dislike. He knew that Malfoy had tried to kill him last year, knew that he had been the one to kill Cedric, and he burned to wipe that unholy smirk right off his inbred, far too pretty face.  
  
How could he be Professor Malfoy's brother? They were completely different.  
  
He asked his friends this, put his concerns to them as they walked in Malfoy's wake, unwilling to leave when the alternative to following was being tied up in the alley...Ron agreed with him, but Hermione shook her head.  
  
"They're almost completely alike, Harry," she said, sounding as if she were puzzled that he couldn't see it. "If they're brothers, they would have had the same tutors, learned the same things, been taught the same values...any difference between them would come from experience, not from attitude."  
  
Harry and Ron exchanged glances, and then looked at her incredulously. She sighed.  
  
"Look," she said patiently. "Professor Malfoy was Lucius' younger, illegitimate brother. He had no power at all, and yet within five years of leaving school, he became the tai-pan of the House after at least six other, more legitimate heirs killed in the Dark Times." She lowered her voice. "Can you imagine what it would take to pull that off? It would take as much ambition and ruthlessness as joining the Death Eaters and then getting away with it by claiming you were under Imperius the whole time...The only difference between them is that Lucius doesn't mask his cruelty, or his High Clan status. He doesn't try and make himself acceptable to society."  
  
Ron scowled. "Professor Malfoy is much nicer than Lucius, and that makes him more dangerous, is that what you're saying?"  
  
"Yes!" She nodded. "That's exactly what I'm saying. He's nicer, so he is more liked, more welcome...and he fools people into thinking that he's not as ruthless, or as potentially deadly as Lucius."  
  
"Dumbledore wouldn't accept him if he were dangerous," said Harry doubtfully.  
  
She sighed. "Dumbledore accepted him precisely because he was dangerous. If he hadn't been on the train when the Death Eaters attacked, we'd have all died. Don't you think that was a superb illustration of just how deadly he really is, and how useful that could be? We were outnumbered and horribly vulnerable, but he found a way to kill them all - not one of the students on that train died, Harry. Not one. Dumbledore wanted a weapon, and he got one." She looked at them, at their stunned faces.  
  
"And besides," she summed up. "Just how dangerous do you think Professor Lupin could be, if pushed? Or Professor Snape? He's a Death Eater, and a Potions Master. If he wanted to, he could slip something into the pumpkin juice and kill every one of us..."  
  
Ron looked horrified. "But that's...that's..."  
  
She finished for him. "That's Slytherin?" Her brows were raised as she did when she had a particularly obvious point to make. "It's no good being honourable when it'll get you killed, Harry. If I were Dumbledore, I'd use everything I possibly could to keep the school safe, too."  
  
They didn't like it, but there was no arguing with Hermione when she was right. They conceded the point.  
  
**************************************  
  
Draco walked with his father, striding along beside him as he had done so often before, feeling the heady pride of knowing that this splendid man was his father. Ever since he'd been young, his goal had been to be just like Lucius, and failing that to be just like his uncle Luc. As he'd gotten older, he'd come to see that they both had their flaws and their shadows, their secrets and their mistakes, but that had in no way diminished the love he bore for them both.  
  
He'd always known they'd once been Death Eaters. He'd always assumed that one day he would follow them if it became necessary - but lately, certain subtle things they'd said had given him the impression that they were trying to discourage him from joining.  
  
They'd said nothing outright, but they'd explained how they'd first become Death Eaters, and for what reasons, what they'd hoped to gain, and what the price had been...Draco had understood from all this that joining Voldemort hadn't been part of their plans, and that, in fact, his presence and his crusade had caused them no end of inconvenience, no matter what they had gained from it.  
  
He'd begun to rethink his decision when Voldemort had first been defeated by Harry Potter in their first year, and gradually, over all the unsuccessful plots, had come the decision, crystallized last year when Cedric Diggory had died, that he didn't want to become a Death Eater, or to be granted the supreme honour of serving the Dark Lord.  
  
However, by then Lucius had been told in no uncertain terms that Voldemort looked forward to the day when Draco would enter into his service, and that he expected great things from him...oh, yes, Voldemort wanted to make it three generations of House Malfoy bending knee to him. Three generations would make it a family tradition and cement them permanently in High Clan minds as loyal supporters - everyone knew Marcus Malfoy had joined unwillingly. But Draco's joining would go far towards erasing that fact...  
  
And so it seemed gracefully backing out, or even politely refusing his offer was no longer an option.  
  
He looked up at his father, who had always looked as if he could take on the world and not lose a mite of his composure. "Father?" he asked softly, for their ears only.  
  
His father made no reaction, didn't even acknowledge that he'd spoken. But he did answer in Welsh, looking straight ahead as they walked. "Talk. We have very little time."  
  
He took a deep breath, remembering his carefully prepared speech - but the necessity of translating into Welsh hampered things a little. Finally he just said, "I don't want to be a Death Eater." He flushed, completely mortified at such a lack of delicacy or tact.  
  
His father only nodded, smiling slightly, proudly. "I know. I'm trying to keep you away from him, but you'll have to trust me..."  
  
Draco blinked. Of course he had complete trust in his father...but how did he know what Draco would decide? He knew better than to ask, though. Lucius had a bad habit of ignoring questions he thought foolish. "I trust you, father," he murmured, heartfelt. It was enough, and it was all that could be said without becoming maudlin.  
  
Lucius stopped walking and looked down at him, into the grey eyes they shared. He didn't smile, but Draco could see it in his eyes. Casually, he rested a hand on Draco's shoulder - an almost unprecedented show of public affection. "Listen to me, Draco. No matter what happens, remember that you are the Malfoy Heir. You are irreplaceable." He sighed at the confusion in his son's eyes, and then tightened his hand on his son's shoulder, squeezing it as he had seen Luc do so casually to the children under his care.

  
"Ah, Draco..." he paused, and then went on, "I am...very proud of you." Draco's eyes went quite round with shock. "I will keep you from Voldemort's service, if it is at all possible. You'll simply have to trust me...and remember that, no matter what happens," his voice sharpened and became implacable, "no matter what happens you are not to surrender yourself. Do you understand?"  
  
Draco nodded wordlessly. It was not enough for his father. "Your word on it, Caius Draconis Malfoy." Sensing the seriousness of the situation, if not what prompted it, he drew out a slim, ornamental dagger and drew it across his palm. "I swear," he whispered. "I will not surrender."  
  
After one last, hard look at him, Lucius nodded, squeezed his shoulder one last time, and said quietly, fiercely, "Remember that I love you," before walking off ahead, leaving a bemused, speechless son to follow wordless in his wake.  
  
**************************************  
  
The Ministry of Magic was housed in an imposing, ancient building first built in 1070 on the explicit orders of the Conqueror's first advisor. Since then there had been several alterations and renovations, but the core of the arrogant, Norman architecture remained.  
  
As did the purpose - it was built solely to curb the power of the High Clan, and for no other reason.  
  
The original founders would be absolutely delighted by today's proceedings, Luc mused. The chance to bring down the Lord of the de Sauvigny, to shame both the House and the Malfoy in one...and to do so in such a public manner, was an incredible opportunity.  
  
Oh, Benjamin Greyson was going to pay, and pay, and pay - it had been a very, very long time since Luc had been this angry...this cold rage, not the hot outrage he'd felt the night before. That had been a pale shadow compared to this.  
  
Insults and threats against his person he could stomach, but insults and threats to his Clan, both of them...that was another matter entirely.  
  
The gathered crowd, perhaps sensing his mood in the way that crowds and mobs could, all fell deathly silent as he walked past and into the building. He almost smiled. They were far, far wiser than their representatives in the Ministry, who had dared to waken the sleeping tiger of the Malfoy wrath...  
  
His eyes were heavy lidded, cold and cruel, his mouth curled sardonically and his whole body language insolent as he made his way through the corridors towards the room to which he had been so cavalierly summoned.  
  
Anyone who had ever judged him to be nicer and tamer than Lucius was going to find themselves in for a rude, rude shock. Lucius had never had to fight off amorous, intoxicated suitors who thought that because he was illegitimate, he was anyone's meat...Lucius had never lost some of those battles, and paid the price. And Lucius, dangerous as he was, had never felt the dark, feral satisfaction of plunging his knife into flesh that had once been used to hurt and humiliate him - Lucius was a creature of the mind, of discipline and manipulation...Luc was far too much a creature of passion, of hot blooded emotion. It was just that his control was normally good enough to mask it.  
  
And for one of the very, very few times in his life, he deliberately took the mask off his emotions, let them have free reign restrained only by tenuous self control.  
  
Someone was going to pay. And he didn't care about the consequences.  
  
***********************************  
  
They followed Malfoy into the Ministry of Magic, into the governmental centre of wizarding England - and then noticed just how much at home Lucius Malfoy was in here, how all the faceless wizards and witches who made up the public service treated him with respectful, almost fearful awe.  
  
Of course, some of the Ministers made a show of defiance - the Ministers who believed that he was a Death Eater working to undermine them from within, or those who, because of their origins, simply disliked him...but even then, underneath the defiance and the sneering was a very real wariness.  
  
Harry had never seen this particular behaviour turned towards Professor Malfoy - he had seemed to be genuinely liked, not feared and resented...perhaps Hermione was right. Perhaps because they thought him tame, thought him safe, their very lack of fear and wariness could make him all the more dangerous, if he chose to reveal his true nature?  
  
Following in the Malfoy Lord's wake, they headed towards the main hearing rooms, where inquiries and hearings were heard on all manner of things. As they walked, the air temperature seemed to drop a little, the normal bustling activity slowed as workers eyed each other warily, and frozen silence seemed to spread outwards from the figure they could see striding up ahead, clothed in black muggle clothes and a very, very cold and menacing aura.  
  
Nick, Marc and Draco exchanged wary glances when they first caught sight of Luc - watching this, Harry himself became a little wary, a little apprehensive about whatever it was that they were going to watch. Lucius Malfoy hadn't said it - in fact, he hadn't said anything other than "Come with me," - but he seemed to be grim, rather than amused, as he so often was...  
  
Perhaps that wasn't such a good sign.  
  
Exchanging a glance of his own with Ron and Hermione, they hurried on to face whatever had made Lucius Malfoy wary - with only one detour along the way.  
  
*********************************  
  
The hearing room was quite large, with a dais at the head of the room, where a panel of judges sat in a row, impassive, stern faces all focused on the small bench where the person being questioned would sit, the focus of all eyes, with perhaps one or two advisors. Behind him there was seating for the interested public, the press, and anyone who wished to either support the accused or watch gleefully as they fell.  
  
As he entered the room, Luc could see the judges - all of them influential and well respected, all of them completely biased against the High Clan and Slytherins, and against the Malfoy in particular.  
  
Obviously someone was taking no chances...  
  
But there were only seven of them, out of a possible thirteen - it was a quorum. The bare minimum needed to convict and ruin him, because if it were a full bench sitting, there would be at least some balancing voices among them, and the decision must be unanimous, to send a man with no prior convictions to Azkaban.  
  
Especially someone of his influence and power.  
  
And, looking around, there he was - the architect of all this - Benjamin Greyson, brushed and well-presented, looking particularly honourable and trustworthy in his formal robes as official liaison, supported by Alastor Moody, who had always hated Luc and Lucius, and by the deputy ambassador, whose cousin owned the American trading house that was Luc's nearest competitor.  
  
There was no sign of the official ambassador, who if he didn't quite like the system, nonetheless recognized the truth of the situation and the benefits to keeping the balance of power stable and secure.  
  
This didn't look good at all - and suddenly the cold rage abated enough to let reason back in.  
  
Entering insolently and arrogantly would only put the judges' backs up further, and it would do nothing to endear the public's opinion of him, so in the blink of an eye he masked it, dropped the aristocratic manner and the edge to his accent, and fell back into the wealthy upper class role he had learned from James Potter and his esteemed father.  
  
He did nothing about the anger - let it simmer as irritation, just visible under the mask.  
  
It would be justifiable anger - after all, he had been summoned from his own business with no notice, with a cavalier lack of any tact or subtlety...even the most biased of judges could understand that kind of irritation, if he didn't let it get too obvious. After all, if he masked it completely, showing no reaction, it would be too much a reminder of the High Clan, and he was aiming for a balance, here.  
  
So with that in mind, he walked in confidently but not arrogantly, and looked around impassively but with a hint of impatience that was credibly hidden and visible only to the more observant among them. The impatience became very real as he saw Anita Skeeter in the crowd. Merlin's balls, he thought that someone had finally done the world a favour and killed her last year...obviously not.  
  
He walked to the small bench and sat down with elegance, arranging his muggle clothes with ease that spoke of long practice - a fact he was sure that some of them, the muggle borns among them, would have noticed. He hadn't brought any counsel with him, ostensibly because the summons had not given him enough notice, and in reality because he didn't want to bring anyone else down with him, if he fell, or if he was forced to drastic measures.  
  
He could hear the crowd murmuring as the benches filled up behind him - looking out of the corner of his eye he saw most of them were aurors, or ministry workers famous for their prejudice against the High Clan...there were none of the moderate ministry workers, none of the higher members who were interested in maintaining the status quo.  
  
It appeared he was to become a fait accompli.  
  
And there, at the back, was a most unusual group of spectators who had not come to witness his downfall. Crabbe. Goyle. Parkinson. Nott. Bulstrode. Flint. Wilkinson. Death Eaters, all - and it seemed that no one else but he could see them. He began to have serious doubts about this - suddenly it was more than an ineffectual attempt to bring him down legally by Greyson. Suddenly it was more - and unless the Boy Scout was in league with Voldemort, either he had played right into their hands, or the Dark Lord had arranged this from the very beginning.  
  
Shit. Why hadn't Lucius told him of this?  
  
And there was Snape, seated among his peers and companions - obviously on official Death Eater business, deep under his cover...sometimes Luc pitied him, the things he was forced to do so that he could continue his spying for Dumbledore. Would he sacrifice even Luc for the headmaster?  
  
Of course he would, although he would no doubt take agonise about it long afterwards, down in his deep dungeon in the darkness of his tortured, guilty soul...really, Snape did tend to make mountains out of molehills...he'd never learned to get on with his life, as he and Lucius had.  
  
Luc suspected that one of Snape's very earliest mentors had been a Christian of some sort, and had filled his mind with their teachings about sin, and penance, and punishment...He himself believed that if an act was justified, then he would gladly pay the price when it fell due. Until that time, he wouldn't worry about what could no longer be changed.  
  
And it seemed that his deeds had finally rebounded back on him. If Greyson could provoke him into anger, then it would be a sign of his disloyalty to the Ministry and further evidence against him, if what he already had wasn't enough...even if he stayed calm and was acquitted, the Death Eaters would be waiting for him when he came out. They might even attack during the hearing, and invisible, the blame would be passed onto Luc.  
  
Damn, damn, damn...  
  
And then suddenly, disconcertingly, he felt a wave of exhilaration well up in him from the odd, carefully hidden, de Sauvigny, Gryffindoric part of his soul that delighted in challenge, in danger. He hadn't been in this sort of a situation in years - he'd thought he'd put danger and excitement behind him...non-Slytherin as it was, he found himself smiling slightly, crazily.  
  
This was going to be fun.  
  
**********************************  
  
Severus saw the slight, almost...reckless grin on Luc's face, an eerie echo of the one Sirius Black had almost constantly worn...and suddenly he was very afraid. Luc's very carefully hidden reckless side invariably led to trouble, whether it was at Hogwarts or under Voldemort's rule...  
  
He edged closer to the door, ensuring he had a clean exit, and began to finger his wind nervously. It paid to be prepared, especially when a Malfoy began preparing to let all their control go...  
  
***********************************


	15. The Beginning of the End pt II

Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. Don't sue me.

CHAPTER 15 - THE BEGINNING OF THE END pt II  
  


  
The head of the tribunal, an imposing, dignified judge who was notorious for his anti-High Clan sentiments, began the proceedings by ordering the accused to be given veritaserum. A healer from St. Mungo's sat in the front row, and pulled out a vial of clear liquid, but hesitated when he looked back at Luc.  
  
"Your honour," he said nervously to the judge, "You do understand that those of Malfoy blood experience a severe allergic reaction to veritaserum? Are you quite sure of this?"  
  
Greyson scowled. "Allergic to veritaserum? That's absolute -" The judge cut him off.  
  
"Yes, I am aware of that, Dr Bennett, but as I understand it, the reaction doesn't set in immediately, and even then the symptoms don't affect their ability to think, or to speak."  
  
The doctor opened his mouth again, encountered Greyson's glare, and thought better of it. Yes, Luc would still be able to speak and think and reason, but the dranath that was one of the main ingredients in the potion would have an entirely different effect.  
  
He held the potion out to Luc, who was watching him with amused silver eyes. He, at least, knew what was going to happen...and he wasn't pleased at all, although he was covering it well. Nevertheless, he drank the potion. What would come would come.  
  
"State your name for the courts, please." The judge looked down his nose at Luc, as if he were a common criminal, as if he had no idea who he was.  
  
Very well, then, he would play along. "Lucien Malfoy, son of Marcus Malfoy." He didn't mention his mother - she had never acknowledged him. Legally, he had no mother.  
  
"And your current position?" As if anyone in this courtroom didn't know it.  
  
"I am the Lord of High Clan de Sauvigny, and the leader of the trading House of de Sauvigny." He could feel the veritaserum already, breaking down his control, enhancing the impulse to tell the truth; because the truth was always easiest...lying took preparation.  
  
"And how did you, er, become Lord of the de Sauvigny?" His tone was skeptical, doubtful. It was downright insinuating.  
  
"As a blood scion of the Clan, I was duly elected by the board, and by the heads of the various families within the House."  
  
"There were no other blood scions that they had to elect a child of the Malfoy to be their leader?" There was a sneering insult on the word Malfoy. He ignored it.  
  
"All the others stood down in favour of me."  
  
"And why do you suppose that is? Why did they not contest your election?"  
  
"Perhaps they thought that it would be best for the whole Clan if I became tai-pan." His voice was calm, expressionless, and utterly impassive.  
  
"Perhaps they were afraid you'd kill them, too!" Interjected Benjamin Greyson, infuriated by the calm, reasonable spell Luc had been spinning with his words.  
  
People began talking in the wake of that accusation, shouting, standing up and shaking their fists...the judges banged their gavels down on the bench, furiously calling for order. Luc sat impassive throughout it all, with no indication as to how the words had effected him...or whether he had deliberately provoked them, so as to get straight to the point and to cause Greyson to lose his temper, thus lessening his credibility.  
  
"Mr. Greyson, you will refrain from unsubstantiated accusations, or I will have no choice but to bar you from these proceedings." Greyson looked murderous, and the glance he sent Luc's way should have pulverized him. For the first time, Luc wondered whether the hatred was for Death Eaters in general, or himself in particular...perhaps he had seen the physical and magical resemblance to Brandon? Or perhaps Kate still talked in her sleep...  
  
The judge continued. "Nevertheless, Mr. Malfoy, I must ask you about the deaths of Messieurs Aethan, Adam, James, Sean, Tarquin and Caine de Sauvigny. I understand that these were the late tai-pan of the House, and the five most likely to succeed him."  
  
Luc nodded.  
  
"They all died, I understand, within five years of each other?"  
  
Luc inclined his head. "Yes, that is true."  
  
"They all fell victim to accidents, to Death Eater attacks, and other tragic events...it would have been a great blow to the House, to lose so many young leaders so quickly." He raised an eyebrow, and Luc nodded again. "But their deaths allowed you to move into a position that you would, normally, never have been granted."  
  
Luc didn't deny it. It was all too true - whether he murdered them or not, he had definitely taken advantage of their deaths.  
  
"All this has been gone over again and again, Mr. Malfoy, by the Aurors, by the ministry officials, by other courts...and each time you were found to have had no complicity in their deaths." The crowd stirred, they knew this all too well. "However," he continued, "new evidence has come to light, and on the basis of that, we have reopened our examination."  
  
Luc said nothing. He could feel the dranath, now, coursing through his blood, mixing with the remnants of what he had taken last night, relaxing the controls he'd placed on his ardeur, enhancing all six of his senses until they were almost hypersensitive. It was a sensation he had experienced many times before, but never in a crowded room where letting his ardeur free would be unthinkable.  
  
But he could feel his control slipping fractionally, feel his skin start to take on a small, imperceptible glow, feel his eyes start to turn pure silver. He sat patiently, concentrating on control, waiting for the judge to get to the point.  
  
"Mr. Malfoy, would you please tell us what you were doing on the nights that your cousins, step-father and half brother died?" He listed the dates.  
  
Luc had prepared these alibis long ago, when he'd first been questioned, but given enough warning by the note and enough time in his walk over to the Ministry, he'd been able to prepare for the effect of veritaserum and have all his answers at the front of his mind. He took his time answering, because too quickly and it would seem false, but he gave the alibis he'd given before. Hopefully he could counter any new evidence...  
  
Greyson smiled triumphantly, and Luc swore inwardly.  
  
"New evidence claims that you were, in fact, at Death Eater meetings on those nights, Mr. Malfoy, and that you, and you alone, were responsible for their accidents, for their murders, for their deaths."  
  
Cool as ever, Luc raised an eyebrow. He'd been waiting for this. "Surely that evidence could only have come from another Death Eater, Your Honour. Are you sure that it's reliable?"  
  
"This particular Death Eater has repented his ways, and has been vouched for by the most trustworthy among us." Luc's reaction time, slowed down by the veritaserum and the dranath, could not prevent the involuntary tensing as he realized where the evidence had come from. "Headmaster Dumbledore holds him in the highest trust."  
  
Anger was the enemy - it would only feed the ardeur, only increase the veritaserum's effect...breathe calmly, in and out, in and out, in and out...  
  
"What do you say to that, Malfoy?" Greyson all but leered at him as he could feel his triumph, his revenge approaching.  
  
But Luc wasn't anywhere near defeat. And he would not go down - it didn't matter if his accuser was Greyson, Snape or Dumbledore himself. He'd come too far, shed too much blood, to see it all taken away from him now.  
  
**********************************  
  
Lucius Malfoy, extremely worried about the events in the hearing room, especially what secrets were being revealed by the veritaserum, was moving as quickly as he could to fetch help for the rescue.  
  
The irony was not lost on him.  
  
Always before, he had relied on no one but himself, or, long ago, on his father, but now he - the Lord of Clan Malfoy - could not save Luc no matter how powerful or wealthy he was. This called for someone else, someone older, someone with a spotless, unbiased reputation.  
  
Dumbledore was not available.  
  
And that left the American ambassador, a relatively honest, honourable man, but with a sound knowledge of politics and the Game, an understanding of British wizarding society and the forces that drove it and kept it profitable. He was a diplomat, a moderate, well-educated gentleman who understood that sometimes distasteful things had to be done for the greater good of society. And more importantly, he could bring Greyson to heel.  
  
If Greyson brought the House down, it would put a fifteen year old, inexperienced boy in the tai-pan's seat - it might have been enough twenty years ago, before Luc got his hands on the House, but now it was larger and more complicated than ever, spread over the entire world and integrated into both Muggle and wizarding economies...no matter how hard Marc tried, he wouldn't be able to hold on, and if the House fell, so did England's economy...  
  
And Lucius had much of his investments tied up in the House, too - not all of them, no, but a reasonable chunk of his money stood to be lost, but more important was a great deal of face and Luc's credibility which, together with Lucius' name, helped control the High Clan.  
  
He had to admit; this plan of Voldemort's was diabolical - almost worthy of himself. If he hadn't suspected that something of this sort was coming...  
  
He rapped imperiously on the door to the ambassador's office, his glance falling to the seven children who had trailed along in his wake. Only Merlin knew what they thought they were doing here - what foolishness had possessed them to follow Severus? They had put themselves and the balance in grave danger...Potter and his two friends he could understand, they couldn't resist poking into things better left alone, but what had happened to Draco and the two de Sauvigny? They were intelligent and canny enough to know when not to interfere. Or, rather, he thought they were.  
  
Nevertheless, he had thought it better to take precautions, and to monitor the one and only fireplace with access to Hogwarts just in case any curious students decided to follow Severus. One ignored True Dreams at their peril - and he had been dreaming almost every night, lately.  
  
He remembered his father, in the days before he had been forced to kneel to Voldemort, in the days before he had been murdered. He had had enough warning, a strong enough premonition, to take the time to see them one last time before the end.  
  
That much grace, at least, was granted to him.  
  
The door swung open, revealing the white haired, dignified ambassador, who was now wearing an expression of wariness and suspicion. "Malfoy," he said, questioning.  
  
Lucius only inclined his head and stayed in the doorway, unwilling to sit down and quite prepared to be discourteous for his brother's sake. "Ambassador," he said curtly. "Do you know what your underling is doing, right now?" And that was quite distressingly blunt, but Lucius was in too much of a hurry to worry about playing games now. Luc, dranath and provocation didn't mix at all.  
  
The ambassador frowned. "Greyson?" Lucius inclined his head. "He should be collaborating with Moody, going over the records to find information about Death Eater methods." He blinked, and then looked at Lucius with dawning suspicion.  
  
Lucius smiled grimly. "At the moment, he is accusing the tai-pan of Death Eater activities and of murdering his way to the top."  
  
The ambassador looked stunned, and then floored by the implications, and then rage swept over his face, turning it almost crimson. Lucius watched in fascination as he whirled around and stalked back into his office, grabbed an overcloak, and pushed past him, almost running down the corridor in his fury.  
  
Closing the door gently, Lucius followed, his seven charges following in his wake like obedient ducklings following their mother duck.  
  
One last stop before he entered the hearing room, before he had to make the final choice.  
  
************************************  
  
The Greyson family had quarters in the Ministry building itself, inside some of the rooms reserved for visiting dignitaries. He knew this, because it was his business to know such things, but he had never had occasion to use the information. Certainly, he had never wanted to before this morning, when he had been confronted by his very drunk, almost suicidal brother.  
  
Kate was still alive.  
  
She was married to Greyson, but she had borne a son, at twenty-one, to Luc, whom she had not seen since she was seventeen...  
  
He didn't want to think about how.  
  
Rapping on her door, much more politely than he had on the ambassador's, he came face to face with the woman that the girl he remembered had become. Dark, unruly hair and green, green eyes - eyes like her sister's, like her nephew's - and perfect, if not aristocratic features. A scar on her forehead, near her hairline, where one of the Slytherin girls had tried to scalp her...  
  
And the same impenetrable mask that he had taught her, that Luc had helped her refine...calculation in her eyes and secrecy in her very blood. Yes, it was Kate. He didn't know what to think, whether to be angry or to be overjoyed about it.  
  
A flash of wariness in her eyes when she recognized him (and how could she fail to? He looked like a blonde version of what her son would be when he reached maturity), a hint of calculation, a decision and a surprising ruthlessness that shouldn't have surprised him. She had always been ruthless, and he supposed that motherhood had only brought out the instinct even further.  
  
She had definitely seen Brandon standing behind him, along with all the others.  
  
"Lucius," was all she said, in her cool, calm, collected voice - it was warm and rich, but the promise had always been reserved for only one man. He wondered if Greyson had ever heard that promise in her voice.  
  
"Kate," he returned, just as warily but in somewhat of a hurry. In the end, as he had done with the ambassador, he got straight to the point. "I need a favour."  
  
An unthinkable request with most Slytherins - it would put him in their debt, which would give them a very dangerous hold over him until he managed to repay it. But she could be trusted - or at least she could have, twenty years ago. He was gambling, with insane recklessness, on the fact that she hadn't changed.  
  
He could feel Draco's shocked eyes in his back.  
  
She only inclined her head. "What do you need?" He breathed out in a silent sigh of relief.  
  
He stepped back to reveal all seven of the children - three of whom she would recognize, and the rest she could guess. "I need you to take care of these children," he said quickly. "Don't let them out of your sight, and don't, for the Gods' sakes, don't let them into the hearing room."  
  
She blinked. "What hearing room?"  
  
******************************************  
  
Luc was hypersensitive by now, he could recognize the feeling. The dranath was raging through his veins, causing his whole body to throb with uncontrollable sexual arousal...it was taking all that he had to control his ardeur, to stop it from taking the arousal and transmitting it all around, heightening the lusts of the others around him and turning that lust into power, which in turn fed his arousal in a never ending cycle.  
  
He lived with that cycle every minute of every day, it was the curse of a sexually mature Malfoy male, but that didn't mean he allowed it to operate at anywhere near full power. The dranath sent it skyrocketing...  
  
And the veritaserum was killing his control.  
  
Nevertheless, he held on - denying, evading, outright lying where he had to and where he could. He had spun his webs of lies for so long that even he half believed them, and the rest of the world could no longer tell fact from fiction. This information, anonymously given to Greyson no doubt at Voldemort's order, could blow all of that open, but it had been so long ago that the memories were very, very hazy, and he had come so far that some people preferred their memories to be very, very hazy.  
  
Not many wanted to betray their tai-pan, one of them whether they hated him or loved him, to an American. They didn't care what he had done in the past, or what he had done to become tai-pan, what mattered was now. And the truth was that he had kept the House from going under, he'd been a respectable pillar of the community for years, he made contributions to charity, and he had saved the Hogwarts Express from the Death Eaters and was teaching there as well.  
  
And if he were teaching there, then he'd have Dumbledore's approval, wouldn't he? As long as he kept his cool, as long as he could control his temper, he would get out of this. And after that, there was only the Death Eaters to take care of.  
  
Simple.  
  
His calm, cool reasonable answers had begun to sway the crowd, if not the tribunal. Benjamin Greyson's face and their natural distrust of any Death Eaters, especially turn coat ones who provided evidence out of the goodness of their hearts, had introduced the first sliver of doubt - and the full knowledge of the risk they were taking, the implications of their actions, was starting to sink in.  
  
However, there was more than enough motivation to send him to Azkaban still, if he made a misstep. There was no way they could pin five of the murders on him - there was simply not enough evidence, even with what Snape had provided. But the whole world knew that he had killed Caine de Sauvigny - the only problem was proving it.  
  
The questioning continued. "Could you describe your relationship with Caine de Sauvigny, Mr. Malfoy?"  
  
He sighed soundlessly. As if they, or indeed the whole world, didn't know. Lying would serve no purpose. "My half-brother and I hated each other, Your Honour. It was entirely mutual."  
  
"Would you describe it as a competitive relationship?"  
  
"Yes." No more, and no less. It was more than enough.  
  
"You made no secret of the fact that you wanted to be tai-pan even at Hogwarts. You set yourself up as a rival to your half brother even then."  
  
Luc nodded.  
  
"So the hatred was very long standing?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And Caine was the only real rival to your plans of becoming Clan Lord."  
  
"Yes." There was the motive - his ambition and his hatred - now all Greyson needed was means and opportunity. If he could prove the Death Eater accusations, he could prove both means and opportunity - and on top of that, it was an automatic trip to Azkaban even if Caine's murder wasn't proved...  
  
Unfortunately for Greyson, nowhere, not fifteen years ago and not now, had anyone ever named Lucien Malfoy as a Death Eater. Not even the eyewitnesses, the spies or the weak pawns who had rolled over on their companions to reduce their sentences had pointed the finger at him even once. The only concrete mention of his involvement as a Death Eater had come from an anonymous, Death Eater source. They claimed he was backed by Dumbledore, that he was repentant - but it was one man's word against a very powerful, very respected pillar of the community.  
  
And no one wanted to be the one to take the blame for a false conviction. The momentum was slowing; the motivation was very quickly losing its pace. He could see the judges exchanging wary looks, shifting nervously - they knew what would happen if someone higher up found out what they were doing...  
  
'This is ridiculous," hissed Greyson, the ringleader, the heart of this court. "There's a foolproof way to find out whether he's a Death Eater or not. Let's just look at his arm."  
  
Luc gave him an incredulous look - did he, a mere four hundred year aristocrat whose ancestors had fled England for the colonies with the authorities on their heels, think to lay his hands on a son of the Malfoy? He...dared? The others were just as stunned, but in their fear had turned ruthless, vicious - finish it now, and have it done with before anyone found out what they were doing.  
  
Hands came from behind him, pinning him to his seat, as the crowd murmured in shock and wariness. He could feel the shock of the Death Eaters behind him - this was completely unprecedented, in a public room in the very Ministry building, in broad daylight? He hadn't even been arrested. Oh, he would sue them for everything they had, when he got out of this - he would ruin their careers, destroy their families, crush them and wipe all evidence of their existence from the earth - he had allowed this farce to continue for far too long. Gathering his power, boosted by the dranath, he prepared to blast them all to hell...and then he looked up to see a hooded figure standing in the gallery above, with seven Hogwarts students tagging along after her. She was hooded and cloaked, everything recognizable hidden, but he knew her.  
  
His soul knew her. Kate? What was she doing here?  
  
And while he was distracted, Greyson himself grabbed his left arm and pushed the sleeve up to his elbow, exposing...flawless white skin.  
  
No Dark Mark.  
  
Of course there wasn't - he covered it with the best illusion spells and glamour he was capable of, a multi-layered tangle of wand magic, ardeur, blood magic and everything else he could think of. Luc had no desire to go to Azkaban through carelessness.  
  
They began to unravel it, because proof that he was hiding something was not proof that he had a Dark Mark. And instead of blasting them as he should, as every instinct screamed at him to, he tipped his head back and stared at Kate, lost himself in her endless green eyes and the sense of peace she had always inspired in him.  
  
Otherwise he would have destroyed the whole room, and everything he had worked for and achieved in his whole life.  
  
***************************************  
  
Kate feasted her eyes on the man she hadn't seen since she'd left Hogwarts twenty years ago, leaving him so that he could achieve his ambitions without being hampered by a mudblood wife. Not, she believed, that he wouldn't have achieved them anyway...but he would not have been so respected by all. The High Clan would never have accepted his marriage to her, even if Lucius threw the whole weight of his support behind them.  
  
She had followed his rise throughout the years, watching from America where she had fled, from Boston and her position as Mrs. Greyson...and seeing him again every day in her son - the most precious thing in her life. She'd named him after the very first Malfoy - the greatest of them all, and perhaps the purest. It had been her greatest hope that he would grow up like his father and not Benjamin - and bringing him here to witness the stark differences between them had been the most effective way of punching home the last lesson.  
  
She'd seen Bran's eyes as he watched Luc and Benjamin spar, seen the slight frown between his eyes as he wondered just why his father was behaving so...crudely. He was playing the melodramatic villain, without even the flair to bring it off well. His transparent, almost childish triumph at finally bringing Luc down was distasteful to Bran, after three months in Slytherin.  
  
To Kate it was sickening - she was ashamed to call this man husband. So she stood above and looked down at Luc, keeping him calm, stopping him from destroying himself before Lucius and the ambassador could come and destroy Ben for him, and before his accusers unraveled the illusion and found the Dark Mark underneath.  
  
***********************************  
  
Severus watched Luc, puzzled. Why was he submitting so calmly? He had noticed Lucius' absence, they all had - but surely Luc didn't think that Lucius of all people had the necessary reputation to quash this completely? He couldn't save Luc now. And then he noticed Luc's eyes were not closed, as he had thought, but focused on a dark, shadowed part of the gallery above.  
  
A figure moved, and she came into view, the children behind her...what in Merlin's name did she think she was doing? Bringing herself, Potter, and Malfoy, not to mention Brandon, who was unmistakably Malfoy, here? In full view of the Death Eaters in the crowd? Surely she saw them?  
  
Of course she did - she looked straight at him. And smiled.  
  
*************************************  
  
Lucius opened the door gently, slipped inside quietly and viewed the proceedings with an indulgent light in his eyes. Then he looked to Snape and the other Death Eaters, paused momentarily, and smiled slowly.  
  
With feline grace he moved aside and allowed the ambassador to enter.  
  
"What is the meaning of this?" came the hard, cutting, authoritative voice, carrying easily over the curses and the spells of the aurors, over the murmuring of the crowd. It bought everything to a standstill as they paused guiltily, realizing just what they had done. Only Greyson stood unmoved.  
  
"We're unmasking a Death Eater," he said defiantly, scowling.  
  
Luc's eyes turned towards the ambassador, and an unmistakable light of amusement lit his eyes as he cast his eye over the tableau. The ambassador's face was flushed and he seemed to have grown two inches in height. "And have you gone through the correct procedure for unmasking a Death Eater, Mr. Greyson? Have you notified the Ministry and the Aurors, have you received a warrant for his arrest, and have you formally put him under arrest before you began questioning him?"  
  
Greyson flushed. "It was not necessary. We had reliable evidence from an anonymous source within the Death Eaters..."  
  
"Reliable evidence from an anonymous, Death Eater source?" The ambassador hissed incredulously. "Are you mad? You'd take a Death Eater's word over the tai-pan's?"  
  
Slowly, the rest of the judges put distance between themselves and Greyson.  
  
"I have had it up to here with your fanatic crusade against the Malfoy, Greyson." His voice was soft, almost hissing, and utterly furious. "You have nearly played into the Dark Lord's hands and brought down the whole English wizarding economy, and you didn't even have the sense to suspect you were being used. You are a disgrace to the American Auror Corps, and after I'm finished with you you'll be lucky if you're ever offered a job again."  
  
************************************  
  
Brandon flushed with shame to see his father so publicly disgraced, but he was even more ashamed of his father's actions. Draco came up beside him, and whispered, "That's your father?" Bran nodded. Draco looked between him and Greyson, and then put a hand on his shoulder. "You're better rid of him, Bran. That's not a man you want to claim as father."  
  
Kate only laughed, but her eyes were wary, watching the Death Eaters in the back of the room, who, thwarted of their plan to use the system against Luc, were now fingering their wands and moving towards the strategic points in the room. The children followed her eyes, all seven of them understanding the implications, and became very silent as they watched the inevitable unfold.  
  
*************************************  
  
Luc and Lucius saw - they had been expecting this. But Luc was bound with magical chains to the chair, and any power he unleashed would be uncontrolled and wild. Lucius still had a choice - to join with the Death Eaters, even after he had brought the ambassador to foil their plans, or to stand with Luc and bring the Dark Lord's wrath down upon himself and his House, his land, and his people.  
  
He looked up to where he had seen Kate, with his son behind her, standing with his nephew and with Potter and the de Sauvigny Heir. Could he risk them? Would they be safer if he joined with Voldemort, sacrificed Luc? Or would Voldemort, now that he had forced Luc to destroy his own blood, take him further and further down the path to hell than he had ever dreamed of going before? Could he see his one and only son bend knee to Voldemort, receive the soul- blackening Dark Mark, symbolic enslavement?  
  
He had been willing to pay that price himself, for his own ambition - but Draco would be paying for Lucius' own ambition, not his own. His son didn't want to be a Death Eater, and had enough faith in his father to tell him openly, and to trust him to prevent it happening.  
  
Lucius hated having his hand forced. He hated being backed into a corner, and he hated having to choose between two impossible choices. But sometimes these things needed to be done - sometimes things had to be done for the greater good of the whole, of the Clan, of the family...and a good Clan Lord knew that.  
  
That had been one of the first things his father had told him, and that he had told Draco.  
  
The Clan was everything - individuals mattered little in the grand scheme, but the Clan had endured for centuries, and would endure for centuries more. Always act for the greater good of the Clan, and not oneself. Oh, Lady...it was time for the Malfoy to end their relationship with Voldemort, and if that meant that Lucius himself had to go, well...  
  
He ripped the invisibility spell hiding the Death Eaters apart, revealing their dark cloaked figures to the whole room, and whipped out his own wand, destroying the chains binding Luc to the chair. When Crabbe Snr spun around incredulously to face him, he smiled thinly, mirthlessly, and killed him. He drew their fire, taking it away from Luc and the spectators, who were now screaming and stampeding towards the door, the aurors on the bench finally coming to their senses and drawing out their wands, shouting to them all to get out.  
  
Luc was trying desperately to get out of the way without having to defend himself, trying to get up the stairs to reach Kate and the children, who had their wands out and were looking nervous but composed. He took a moment to assess their wand style - it had definitely improved since he'd taken over their teaching - before he dropped to the floor to dodge a flash of green light. Gods, what he wouldn't do to get his hands on a gun...! He knew Lucius was covering him, and reminded himself to do something nice for his brother next time he saw him...  
  
He got to the gallery just in front of a barrage of fatal curses and dived, throwing his full weight into them, knocking them down all just as the ceiling crashed down around their heads. He threw his power into a shield, it wavered a little (well, quite a lot) but it held. Sheltered by the ceiling, he pulled them along behind him, trying to get out through the gallery door so they wouldn't have to pass through the Death Eaters below.  
  
Harry balked, digging in his heels. "We can't just run," he shouted, stunned.  
  
Luc ignored him and grabbed him by the upper arm, ready to drag him, when Hermione spoke up in support. "What about all the people down there? Are you just going to leave them?"  
  
He looked down at her, exasperated. "Yes," he said impatiently. "There are three fully trained aurours down there, and they're more than capable of handling anything. Now let's go, before they realize we're still alive."  
  
But this time it was Draco - pragmatic, ruthless Draco who had no desire to die or be caught by Death Eaters, who objected. "What about my father?" he asked softly, almost naively.  
  
Luc stopped, stunned. What about Lucius? "He's holding them off for us, Draco. Gaining time for us, so that we can get out. Do you want to see all that effort wasted?"  
  
He drew himself up. "We can't just leave him!" Lady of Ravens, it seemed Draco had a stubborn, Gryffindoric side too. What a time for it to manifest...  
  
Luc sighed. "Run," he said, firmly. "Don't look back, or stop, for anything." And, cursing at stubborn fools who should know better, and including himself in that category, he headed back down the stairs.  
  
It was chaos - absolute chaos. Aurors and Death Eaters were cursing each other, and because of the small room, ricochets were going everywhere...and there was Lucius, back to back with Alastor Moody, of all people...Luc almost smiled. His brother looked up, and the expression on his face was clear for all to see. "What are you doing here?" he mouthed, but Luc just shrugged. Pulling out his wand, because it was the only way he could possibly control his magic, he started cursing and hexing, and pulling out a very wicked killing knife, he started stabbing and slitting.  
  
Once again, the world seemed to slow down, and once again, he fell into the rhythm of fighting and killing. Avoiding curses, he fought his way towards Lucius, trying to get close enough that he could apparate them both out, it didn't matter where...he was almost close enough to touch, almost close enough to grasp his brother's hand, and was drawing on his power and focusing on the woods outside Hogwarts, had in fact brushed fingertips with Lucius when he heard a high pitched cry and a young voice cry out "Avada Kedavra!" from above on the gallery.  
  
There was an endless, drawn out moment as he looked into Lucius' eyes, as he recognized the voice as Draco's, desperate and afraid, as he saw the moment Lucius knew either he or his son was going to die. A kind of resigned amusement, a momentary sadness, and a dawning determination, and an unmistakable order all ran through his eyes, locked on Luc's, and through the hand that had finally grasped his, gripped his for the very last time in friendship, love, and acknowledgement.  
  
"Go," he said softly, calmly. "It is for the best. Look after him, brother."  
  
Then Lucius let go, and Luc was left on his own, in a roaring silence with his heartbeat thudding in his ears...realizing he had no other choice, he fought his way back to the children with unstoppable ferocity, killing whoever and whatever stood in his way. He caught up with them where they fought with three Death Eaters, holding their own but being slowly, inevitably forced back towards a hole in the floor.  
  
Clearing his mind of everything but the need for absolute control, he focused everything he had on the one spell, on the one result, and then, when he was absolutely sure that he dare not wait any longer, he let his power, augmented and boosted and made uncontrollable by dranath, flow through the rigid, utterly disciplined control structure he'd created...  
  
The Death Eaters disintegrated, and the door was blown open - wasting no more time he grabbed them, and Kate too, and pulled them along behind him at a dead run, along the gallery and out the door.  
  
But before he left, he looked back one last time.  
  
Lucius had gone under - pounded by too many curses to count, his shields had finally weakened and then broken, and they'd brought him to his knees. However, instead of killing him, as had been their first intention, they were dragging him towards the door, struggling all the way, taking him in Luc's place to the Dark Lord.  
  
One last time, their eyes met - "Go, you fool," whispered Lucius Malfoy, Lord of High Clan Malfoy, Luc's beloved brother, on his way to an agonizing death.  
  
Luc went.  
  
******************************************  
  



	16. The King Must Die

Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. The title of this chapter comes from a novel by Mary Renault, of the same name. The idea of a king/prince/consort dying to renew the land is a major mythological/religious theme.

  
  


CHAPTER 16 - THE KING MUST DIE  
  


  
Still holding on tightly to his charges, Luc ran through the Ministry building, heedless of the screaming or the aurors shouting, or of the blind terror all around. The nightmare had come true - Voldemort had indeed returned, and so publicly it was impossible to deny it any longer. Luc was human enough to only feel a small sense of triumphant vindication - the genuine terror on the fleeing faces smothered any real pettiness.  
  
It was human nature to ignore distant shadows on the horizon, if the sun was shining overhead.  
  
Not all the Death Eaters had apparated with Lucius (Lucius! Oh brother, I couldn't save you...) some had come after them, and he could hear them running, feel their cold breaths on the small hairs on the back of his neck.  
  


Instinct. Training. Experience. They all told him he couldn't have saved both Lucius and the children - he could only have saved one of them, and if Lucius was the Lord, then Draco was the Heir. The Unmarked, flawless Heir who was the future and the continuance of the Clan - he would lead them out of the shadows and into the Light.  
  
But for that to happen, first the King must die.  
  
Running out into a relatively clear room, he spun around, pushed Kate and the children behind him and gathered his power, still slightly out of control, to face the Death Eaters. Three of them - not, he was happy to see - veterans from the days Before. They couldn't have been long out of school, because they still assumed the approved Dueling pose (rather like a fencer going en guard) and paused momentarily before letting fly.  
  
Luc had no such scruples - as soon as he had made sure his charges were behind him and his shield, he held up his right hand, palm first, and clenched it into a fist, squeezing. The three amateur killers collapsed on the ground screaming, every bone in their bodies cracking, every blood vessel bursting, everything that could be squeezed was forced tighter and tighter until it burst, snapped or was crushed.  
  
It took all of three seconds.  
  
He didn't look back as he strode out, his horrified, sickly fascinated charges hurrying reluctantly after him.  
  
Outside, all was chaos - he cast a light distraction spell on them that would cause the eye to slide around them and focus elsewhere, and he hurried them ruthlessly, relentlessly towards the apparition point. There were nine of them - he and Kate and seven children - and out of them only Kate, himself, Draco and Miss Granger could apparate. They would have to hold hands. He hoped it was enough.  
  
He took hold of Nick and Marc's hands, Kate took Harry's because he didn't trust Draco, Draco took hold of Brandon's hand, and Hermione took Ron's. Then, linking hands so they stood in a circle, Luc took hold of his magic, took hold of the spells Kate, Hermione and Draco formed but didn't release, and bound them to his controlling apparition spell. Hopefully, they would all end up in the same place, if no one let go...sending off a quick prayer for luck, for skill, for control, he closed his eyes and willed them all away.  
  
When he opened his eyes, wincing at the "pop" he hadn't made during apparation in ages, he looked not upon Diagon Alley, but on a calm, lush valley bathed in sunlight and a sense of peace and prosperity. This was the country estate of the de Sauvigny - not the ancestral one in Brittany that had been destroyed in the muggle French Revolution, but the one that had been built by Jean-Marc himself when he had decided to settle in England two hundred years ago. The first time he'd seen it almost twenty- five years ago, he'd coveted it, its peace, its prosperity...but it couldn't take away the need for high, Welsh valleys and the timeless land beyond the Veil - nothing could. But this land would do, if he couldn't have the Malfoy land.  
  
He looked around him, saw the almost imperceptible shapes of the shadows who guarded this place, saw them register his identity, saw them fade back into their hiding places. He smiled - he had picked well. No one would come onto this land, at any point, without being seen by the shadows, and if they were a threat, without being eliminated.  
  
Following his gaze, Harry and surprisingly, Hermione saw something of what he had seen -Brandon suspected but, by the crease between his brows, hadn't seen it, and Ron saw nothing and suspected nothing. Luc sighed - he thought he had taught Weasley better than that - the boy had potential, but hadn't yet managed to tap into it. Draco, Nick and Marc, rigorously trained to the same standards, the same expectations, had all seen it less than a heartbeat after he had - he had expected no less.  
  
Watched over by the shadows, blessed by the midday sunlight above and the life and fertility all around, they went down the hillside to the House that he had taken, and built into an empire.  
  
********************************  
  
"What is this place?" breathed Ron, fascinated by the sense of history and power, by the wealth he could feel oozing out of the very walls of the house, an eighteenth century mansion done in the magnificent Italian style. He half expected to hear Malfoy's taunting voice mocking him on his poverty and his lack of worldly experience - indeed, he was waiting for it - but it didn't come.  
  
Shocked, he turned to face the boy who had been his nemesis for four years and more, and realized that he was paler than usual, and not nearly as composed as he was pretending to be. He could see that Nick de Sauvigny was watching him like a concerned hawk, and for a very brief moment he felt a sense of soaring triumph to see Draco Malfoy at last knocked off his superior perch. But then he remembered the undisguised look in his eyes as, looking back, he saw his father overwhelmed and taken by Death Eaters.  
  
He had a soul after all - and it had been there in his eyes, unmasked and unveiled, for all to see. The sheer depth of the emotion and intensity had made Ron look uneasily away.  
  
For once, Hermione didn't have a ready answer, so Marc answered - his aristocratic bearing no longer slightly out of place and incongruous as it was in Gryffindor - he looked as if he were right at home here, among all this money.  
  
"This is the main seat of House de Sauvigny," he said absently, watching Luc with slightly narrowed eyes. The man was far, far too composed...the way he had killed those Death Eaters meant that something very, very dangerous prowled under that mask.  
  
Ron was impressed, despite himself. He had grown up poor, but not poverty stricken - he had never, ever seen riches like this. He looked to Malfoy, who seemed at home here. The Malfoy were wealthy, incredibly wealthy, but their Clan was geared towards power and protection of their land. The de Sauvigny were traders, merchants - they lived for the acquisition of money and riches. Of course, the differences had blurred a little since Luc, with his Malfoy mindset, had taken over, but the de Sauvigny did tend to flaunt their wealth, rather than their power. Hence this showcase of a house.  
  
A lone house elf, dressed in a clean, well tended smock, came and took their cloaks - as he handed his over, Luc asked him where everyone was. The elf bowed low, cringing slightly - Ron noted that he didn't seem to be afraid of Luc like Dobby had been of Lucius, but he was definitely wary of Luc right now. "They is all going overseas, master. They left as soon as you sent word, sir."  
  
Luc nodded, still eerily controlled and the elf fled - and Ron finally noticed what had been bothering him about the house since they'd all walked inside. It was too quiet - it had the echoing feeling of a place where people no longer walked. So they had all gone overseas? Considering that the Death Eaters had been hell bent on bringing Luc down, it was probably a good idea for the rest of his family to make themselves scarce...  
  
Leading the way into...a drawing room? A sitting room? Ron didn't know what to call it - Luc walked to an antique carved wooden cabinet that would probably cost what Ron's father made in a whole year, and poured himself a very, very stiff drink. Watching this, Draco Nick and Marc, who knew him best, suddenly sat very still and concentrated on not being noticed. Ron had learned to watch those three to gain warnings about Luc's mood - and it seemed that it was best to follow their actions, at least for now. Despite his and the Weasleys' reputation, Ron did have some discretion, at least enough to know when not to disturb someone who could make Draco wary.  
  
Kate watched with cool, calculating eyes and said nothing - as she had been doing all the time since they had escaped the Ministry building. It was damned disconcerting to see Harry's eyes so cold and...Slytherin.  
  
So here they were, all sitting quietly, wary of provoking Luc in any way - but Brandon, who had for some reason been enraged ever since they'd left the hearing room, was reckless enough to try it - either that, or he was angry enough and passionate enough to forget about the consequences.  
  
Finally he could contain himself no longer. "Why did you leave him like that?" he burst out, all the resentment at learning about his parentage, all the resentment at seeing the man he thought of as his father shamed in such a public manner and all the resentment at Luc's infuriating control bubbling over uncontrollably, lashing out at the alpha male, whom he blamed, perhaps with some cause, for everything that had gone wrong in his life lately.  
  
Luc, still damnably composed, only looked at him and raised an insufferably superior eyebrow. He didn't even bother to say anything, just looked, and for some reason, that sent Brandon's temper over the edge.  
  
"You just left him there - you didn't even try to save him," he said softly, but working himself up into hysteria. "He's your brother, and you left him to die! You watched as they dragged him away - you could have saved him, could have killed them all with one flick of your finger - but you did nothing! NOTHING!! You gave him to Voldemort, so he could be killed..." he paused for breath, but didn't seem to notice the way Luc had stood up and moved closer, a very different aura surrounding him now.  
  
Draco and his two sidekicks had somehow faded into the woodwork, trying desperately not to be noticed. Hermione was watching them, puzzled - she thought Luc had all but raised them? Why were they so afraid of him? Harry was just watching Brandon the way he watched Neville in potions - except he sensed that Luc would do more than verbally abuse him and his potion making skills.  
  
Kate, who as Brandon's mother should have been more concerned about protecting him, was watching with cold, Slytherin eyes - she would do nothing to stop what was coming, either because she didn't want to defy Luc or she wanted Brandon to learn some kind of lesson. Ron eyed her with curious fascination - she was one cold woman.  
  
Heedless of everyone else's fear, Brandon continued. "You've always wanted to be the Malfoy, but you were a bastard - did you think that with Lucius out of the way, Draco would be easy to kill? You were always jealous of him, afraid of him, you hated him - did you hate him enough to hand him over to the Death Eaters?"  
  
Luc cut in. "Enough," he hissed softly, dangerously.  
  
"No, it's not enough," Bran shouted - shouted! - "You did nothing to stop it! But then you've made a practice of killing your brothers, haven't you Luc the bastard, Luc the whore, Luc the kinslayer..."  
  
Crack!  
  
Brandon suddenly crumpled to the floor, Luc standing over him, breathing heavily, his whole body vibrating and his ruined control in his eyes. The dranath was still effecting him - he could almost taste the blood, could imagine the thrill of the violence, of breaking this insolent fool...he squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply, desperately fighting for control.  
  
Bran had a hand pressed tight to his lower face, blood leaking from between his fingers as he whimpered, stunned - looking up at the man he had thought safe to lash out at his eyes were shocked, betrayed, and confused. He held out his fingers and looked down at the crimson blood dripping from his nose, from his lips, shocking against his white skin.  
  
Luc had struck him. Backhanded him with all the strength of a fully mature man in his prime, with his whole weight behind his hand. His father had hit him - and from the look in his eyes, would have done much more...  
  
"Now are you ready to listen?" came the soft, very dangerous voice. Brandon nodded frantically, and the rest of them were all too stunned to do anything but agree.  
  
"I could not save both him and you both," Luc said evenly. Calmly. As if he hadn't just knocked Brandon off his feet and nearly broken his nose. "Given the choice, I chose all of you. Lucius will die - it is inevitable, and has been ever since Voldemort was resurrected. But his death will allow all of you to live." He squatted down until his face was level with Brandon's and he was looking him in the eye. "And as for Draco, Lucius' death will put a new, unmarked Lord not bound to Voldemort in any way into the High Seat - and it will break the Malfoy association with him for all time."  
  
"So that's it," said Hermione, sounding displeased. "Mr. Malfoy dies, and you do nothing to stop it, saying the sacrifice was worth it and it's all better now? You want him to die!" she accused.  
  
Ron exchanged a pained look with Harry. Hermione was brave, yes, she was supposed to be - but couldn't she show a little discretion?  
  
Apparently Luc had himself under control now. "Yes, Miss Granger, cold and callous as it may sound, that's it."  
  
"So now that Lucius is gone, the Malfoy are as politically pure as driven snow and can regain all they had lost?" she demanded, shaken at such ruthlessness. "The Ministry will suddenly favour them again?"  
  
He smiled slightly. Apparently Miss Granger had learned something - cynicism, at least - from his teachings. But in this case, she had misread the situation. "No, Miss Granger. This is much, much older. The Lord, the King, is the life of the people and of the crops. If the crops fail, if the land is infertile, the King must die, and his blood will make the crops grow again."  
  
"And are the Malfoy crops failing?" she challenged, indignant.  
  
"No. But the Malfoy land is - the Veil is fading, the Covenant is deteriorating, the very fabric of life beyond the Veil is slowly but surely becoming unraveled. Only death, only the Lord's blood, will stop it, and renew it as it was once more."  
  
She looked stunned and horrified. So did the others, except Kate and Draco - Kate because she and the two brothers had discussed this, years ago, when they had debated the benefits and drawbacks of joining Voldemort, and Draco because he had known, instinctively, when he had seen Lucius loosen his grip on Luc's hand, when he had looked into his father's eyes, calm and collected and determined, as they had dragged him out the door.  
  
Even Nick and Marc, High Clan as they were, were children of a Clan younger and more innocent than the Malfoy. They were not so steeped in the shadows, in the darker practices and truths of the 13 original Clans, founded by full blooded, fully initiated Sidhe warriors of the Unseelie Court.  
  
Hermione, child of muggle dentists, brought up in the modern world, had very little understanding of the shadows and shades of grey that ran throughout the magical world. But she knew better than to argue with the look in Luc's eyes.  
  
*************************************  
  
They took him to the border, to the edge of what was now known as modern- day Wales and the intangible, invisible barrier known as the Veil. It was an edge indeed - the Veil began an arms length over the side of a very steep, thickly forested cliff - or what looked like a cliff, until the Veil was opened and it was revealed for the narrow crevasse it was. One only had to step over it - but unless a scion of Malfoy blood opened the Veil, it remained a cliff, and it obeyed all the natural and inevitable laws of cliffs.  
  
Lucius had been expecting to end up here - he'd known of Voldemort's and Pettigrew's plans for a while; plans to destroy Luc, to punish Lucius' disobedience and insolence, and to finally accept Draco's allegiance in return for what was left of his land and people. And as for the method, for the way they would punish him - well, he had been having Dreams for weeks now, and he had come to accept that some things were inevitable.  
  
Indeed, some things were for the best. His death would bring about a renewal, a rejuvenation - Draco was more than capable, with Luc's help, of dealing with the rest. Now all he had to do was make sure Voldemort didn't find out he wanted them to kill him, to shed his blood. If that happened, all was lost.  
  
He heard footsteps coming up behind him - soft, almost inaudible footsteps accompanied by swishing and almost billowing robes, and he smiled despite the pain his split lip caused him. Snape. No one else walked like he did, even when he was in stealth mode.  
  
Snape bent down behind him, holding his head up, placing it on his lap because he was bound hand and foot - they didn't petrify him because then they couldn't see him flinch and jerk - and wiped a soft, damp cloth over his brow, trickling some water into his mouth. His touch was oddly gentle, even tender, and Lucius' smile turned half bitter, half self-mocking, even as he drank the water eagerly. It was only water - he'd checked before drinking.  
  


"Believe me, Lucius, I'm so sorry," came the velvet voice, filled with guilt and self-loathing and bitterness, and a plea for him to understand. Lucius laughed soundlessly, shallowly, because any more and it would hurt his cracked ribs.  
  
"I know, Sev," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Divided loyalties are hell, aren't they?"  
  
He could feel Severus flinch, almost involuntarily, before he regained control. "How did you know?" came the very, very soft question.  
  
"I've always known."  
  
"Then why..." he didn't finish. He didn't need to.  
  
"Because I'd have done it too, if I didn't have too much to lose. Because...because you're my friend." And that sounded ridiculous - but it was the truth. Despite all the mistrust and all the lies and deceptions, Snape was his friend.  
  
How Gryffindoric of him.  
  
Snape's indrawn hiss was long and thoughtful, and slightly regretful. "I'm glad," he said, hesitating slightly. "But...but I'm afraid that Luc may not see it that way anymore..."  
  
Lucius' smile twisted. "Ah, Kate...that is something between you and Luc alone, Sev."  
  
Severus laughed soundlessly. "You will have to mediate for us when we do talk about it," he said, amused.  
  
Lucius said nothing. Snape listened to the silence, and his amusement faded. Finally he said, almost desperately, "Lucius, I'll get you out of this. I just need a little time and trust."  
  
Again, Lucius remained silent. And then he spoke, his voice impassive. "Would you compromise your cover for me, Snape? Would you choose me over Dumbledore's light and love?"  
  
Snape opened his mouth impulsively, but then thought, and slowly, wearily, closed his eyes. He said nothing - there were no words needed.  
  
"Voldemort is determined to see me dead tonight, Sev. Voldemort is already suspicious of you - he chose this test deliberately. If I escape..." he trailed off, not willing to tell Snape of the true nature of this test. It would come soon enough.  
  
Severus sighed. He couldn't compromise his cover, not now when so much was at stake. But if he didn't he would have to watch his oldest friend/companion/partner die...he would have to watch everything, and show nothing, and he would bear Lucius' eyes on his conscience forever more. But Lucius was right - his role as a spy was the most important thing. In the choice between two evils, he would have to choose the lesser, the choice that would lead to the greatest good, no matter the cost to himself and his soul...  
  
He would suffer Purgatory on earth so that he might one day be worthy of heaven. It was the only thing he had to live for now.  
  
"Ah, Lucius...forgive me, please..." He closed his eyes, struggling for control, because he couldn't afford the slightest misstep.  
  
The bound, battered, bloodied angel in his arms only laughed softly. Soon, Snape thought absently, he would be broken. The eyes opened and looked straight into his - clear, endless silver, so unfathomable and so vital, so calm now, when the end was so near. He smiled, a genuine, true smile with no hint of mockery or any other qualification. "Ah, Sev," Lucius whispered, "for what it's worth, I forgave you long ago." A hint of the old snobbery came back into his voice. "Teaching Potions at Hogwarts is punishment enough for any number of sins..."  
  
Snape scowled involuntarily. Then, irrationally, he bit down sharply on his lip, struggling not to laugh. When he had it under control, he heard his Lord's hissing, malevolent voice calling him. Leaving Lucius with a last, lingering look, he walked confidently, slowly over to reality and unpleasant truth. Kneeling at Voldemort's feet, he bent his head and kissed the hem of his robes, and kept his head bowed as the Dark Lord grabbed him by the hair and pulled his masked face up to meet his gaze.  
  
"Take off your mask," came the hissed order. Snape stilled - this meant no good - but he obediently reached up and with the pads of the fingers of his right hand, he gently pulled his mask off, exposing his true face to the bonfire, to the circle of Death Eaters and to the Lord.  
  
"Severus Snape," Voldemort's voice was amused and expectant, sending a shudder down his spine, and suddenly he knew that something very, very bad was about to happen.  
  
"You have been given a chance to prove your complete loyalty to us and our cause," Snape felt a brief spurt of amusement at the use of the royal "we", but it faded as the implications of that statement caught up with him, "by personally displaying every bit of your considerable expertise to make a definitive example of the traitor. Make him long for death, Snape, for as long as you possibly can. We will be watching, and judging you."  
  
Unmasked, he had to employ every art he had not to betray his horror - he had the feeling he was only just successful, judging by the malicious gleam in the Dark Lord's eyes. But there was really only one thing he could do. He bowed his head, forced down any vestiges of Severus Snape and became, for the first time in a very long while, wholly the Potions Master, the Dark Lord's Chief Inquisitor. When he looked up again, he was cold, inside and out, and completely impassive and unfeeling. He was not a man, he was a tool, a blade, with no emotions and no pity or mercy - he felt nothing, and nothing affected him. Nothing at all.  
  
He met Voldemort's eyes boldly, fully, and said, "As you will it, my lord, so shall it be."  
  
Voldemort smiled, cruelly, evilly. "And then," he all but purred, "When there is only the tiniest spark of life left in his broken body, he will be sacrificed and his death will bring down the Veil and let us into his own heartland." His smile boded no good for the Malfoy heartland.  
  
Bowing again, the Potions Master, cruel and emotionless, made his way over to the traitor, to make an example of him. Only he had seen the briefest flash of life in Lucius' eyes as Voldemort spoke of killing him - a teasing wisp of memory tugged elusively at his mind, a bit of ancient lore, but he couldn't quite grasp it.  
  
He had to save Lucius, to save the land Beyond the Veil, but he couldn't do it without compromising his cover. As he tied Lucius to a frame and stripped him of his shirt and coat, he heard perhaps the worst thing he could ever have thought to hear.  
  
"Well, well, well, Mr. Malfoy, and young Draco, too. And who else is it? Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, Mr. Weas0ley, Messieurs de Sauvigny, and Mr. Greyson...please, be welcome." Voldemort's hiss was all too triumphant. "By all means, come in out of the forest and join in the festivities..."  
  
**************************************  
  



	17. Reaffirmation

Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. Don't sue me.

  
  


CHAPTER 17 - REAFFIRMATION  
  


  
In the drawing room of the Castle, Narcissa Malfoy stood at the window and looked into the east, where the darkness of night was coming down, inevitable and unstoppable. Soon all of the lands that had belonged to the Malfoy for thousands of years would be cloaked in darkness, and not even the Veil could stop it.  
  
Voldemort was coming. And not Lucius, not Luc, not even Brandon Malfoy himself, should he somehow, miraculously come back to life, could stop him. Very soon, very very soon now, she would see her arrogant fool of a husband brought down. Lucius had only played at being evil; his sense of honour and his ridiculous Covenant had forbidden him from fully embracing the opportunities Voldemort had represented.  
  
So the Dark Lord had ordered his father's death. What of it? Old Marcus Malfoy was a fool who hadn't had the balls to play the Game ruthlessly enough to survive. She had to admit that Lucius was far more ruthless than his father had ever dreamed of becoming - and Luc even more so - but still his ridiculous honour held him back.  
  
She had thought, when she had first set her sights on the new Malfoy Lord, that here was a man who could go all the way to the pinnacle, and take her with him. He'd been the perfect Death Eater - ruthless, cunning, conscienceless and completely immoral - until he'd taken the Mask off and she'd seen the true man.  
  
He was first and foremost the Malfoy Lord - everything else came second to that. Even the Dark Lord.  
  
And his brother, who also could have been so much more, was just as honourable, and even more crippled by the death of his mudblood whore. Her death had almost broken him - almost smothered the fire and had come so, so near to destroying all that raw, unclaimed potential.  
  
At the time she had chosen the brother she thought to be the alpha male. She'd known he would be hard to manipulate, but she'd been confident they'd at least share the same ambitions, dream the same dreams. She hadn't counted on his positively archaic attachment to this land beyond the back of nowhere.  
  
She'd taken it for as long as she could. She'd given him his precious son and heir, whom he doted on almost as much as he did the land. She'd stood by his side and had watched as he played puerile political games with muggle lovers and fools, and had endured in silence all the years where she was considered to be of equal legal standing to old hags like Molly Weasley. All the years when the fools and canaille had looked at her and had dared to judge her, dared to even think that they were just as good as she, a Beaumont and a Malfoy.  
  
And now the Dark Lord had returned, and those years were at an end. But Lucius, although he had gone back at first, had turned against his rightful lord and had arrayed himself on the other side, with the muggle loving fools.  
  
So be it.  
  
She would not go down with her husband like that weak, spineless fool Ruth in the Christian stories. No. She would see Lucius fall, and she would use it as leverage on her way up. If she could bring her son in with her, all the better. Perhaps he would be more easily controlled than his honourable, strong willed father.  
  
Narcissa was a lovely woman. But in that moment, as the last lights of the sun in the west gave way to the darkness in the east, she smiled - and it was a terrible, terrible smile.  
  
**************************************

  
Dominic de Sauvigny, who alone among his family had not fled overseas, perched on the edge of Rayden Lestrange's desk and watched appreciatively as Benjamin Greyson, somewhat deflated but still superior, demanded that Rayden, now the Minister of Defence, save his wife from the evil clutches of the tai-pan, and while he was at it use everything he had to get the man dismissed and thrown into Azkaban.  
  
Evidently he hadn't yet grasped the fact that Rayden and Luc were best of friends, and only de Sauvigny and Malfoy support could have been enough to ensure the election of a man who had been suspected of involvement with the Dark Lord, and whose elder brother and sister-in-law had actually been convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment. Rayden had not forgotten, and was not likely to.  
  
He listened to Greyson politely, impassively, before nodding gravely, assuring him that every effort would be made to locate his wife, and then dismissing him. Then he turned those penetrating green eyes - particularly striking with his white, white hair - onto Dominic, who had always been a little in awe of him, and onto Albus Dumbledore, who had never been in awe of anyone, let alone Rayden.  
  
He raised an eyebrow, inviting comment.  
  
"Actually," murmured Dominic nonchalantly, "I've been wondering about that. Where is Luc?" He asked it as if he wasn't nearly frantic with worry about Luc's uncharacteristic despair, about the attack on the Ministry, about the rumours running wild that Lucius Malfoy had become a Death Eater again...  
  
"And more to the point," said Dumbledore gravely, "What has he to do with the attack on the Ministry today?"  
  
Rayden closed his eyes wearily. He'd been frantically trying to recreate order, to calm down panicked citizens, most of whom he'd been ready to blast himself, and to find out just what had happened in that hearing room today. He held up his hands. "I don't know where Luc is," he started. "I don't know where Greyson's wife is, or whether she's gone off with him or not. I do know that the attack today was aimed specifically at Luc - so somehow they knew that Greyson would get his blood up and go after him...but something went wrong." And here he smiled somewhat grimly. "Lucius evidently decided to try his luck on the other side, this time." He said that as if he, too, hadn't decided the grass was greener on the side of the so-called light.  
  
Dominic said nothing. It was not his place to judge - but he had never been a fan of Lucius'. "And the rumours?" he asked, his tone still ice-edged. Lucius' sudden change of allegiance was just too sudden for his taste...  
  
Rayden sighed. They had been over this before - Dominic disliked and distrusted Lucius, but that didn't mean the man was completely evil. Rayden knew all too well the pressure the High Clan had been under to turn, to succumb to Voldemort - he hadn't needed the example of Lord Harcourt, Dane Harcourt's father, to understand the price of defiance...he'd taken the easy way, himself, but Dominic hadn't had to choose at all.  
  
"Lucius was taken by the Death Eaters in Luc's place," he said softly, holding himself tightly composed. He knew what would happen to the Malfoy Lord - he'd seen it done, he'd done it himself...and now he suspected that he'd have to try and stop it. He was the Minister of Defence, the man ultimately in charge of the nation's defences - and he was obligated to crush out Death Eater activity when and where he could.  
  
Obligated. That meant he had to rush out to the rescue, wands blazing, braving what he knew to be a trap with every instinct he had, to save a doomed man Voldemort would never, ever give up - or at least send someone out to do it for him - like some foolhardy and idealistic Gryffindor. He winced inwardly at the thought of himself acting like James Potter and - (his mouth wanted, desperately, to twist) - Black.  
  
Life was much simpler without obligations.  
  
Meeting Dumbledore's eyes, he saw the knowledge there, along with a sadness, a lingering regret that he'd only been mature enough to see the first time he'd met the Headmaster after Voldemort's first defeat. So many faces missing from the Hogwarts year book, so many lost and broken lives, whether they'd fallen under the Death Eaters or had been sentenced to Azkaban or had fled overseas, away from the strife.  
  
And he had understood then, understood with real astonishment, that Dumbledore had mourned him, too, when he'd turned away from the light. Every one of them - Lucius and Luc and Snape, Dirk, Brandon, Shan and Rayden himself - had been under by the old man's care, and he had truly regretted their defection.  
  
It made him bristle instinctively, until he'd seen the limitless care and love in those blue, blue eyes. There was a capacity for love that he'd been almost ashamed to witness. He'd been humbled by that truth, by that openness - and it had made turn away discomforted, all the cynical truths he'd learned at such price, all the walls and defences carefully cultivated over a lifetime of danger and treachery almost defeated by such defenceless compassion.  
  
Dumbledore grieved for Lucius Malfoy, who had done his best to bring him down, who had embraced darkness for his own ends, and who assuredly had done things to merit his own painful death. And he grieved for Luc and everyone else who would be affected by that death. 

Ah, Lucius...well, he would do his best to bring about a rescue. He'd set the arrangements in order almost immediately he'd had confirmation that Lucius had been taken. He didn't need to find out where they would take him. He already knew.  
  
***********************************  
  
Harry shifted, trying to find a more comfortable spot, trying to remember Professor Malfoy's lessons on staying still for long periods of time. Exercise each muscle separately without moving, breath slowly and regularly, concentrate on stillness - still water, unbroken and perfect reflections...he could see the professor if he concentrated hard enough, silhouetted against the fading light and almost indistinguishable from the trees around them, he was so still.  
  
He'd evidently had a lot of practice at staying still - and no, he didn't want to think about it. It was enough to even know that he'd been a Death Eater, without speculating on it.  
  
They'd been sitting in the drawing room earlier, Mrs. Greyson (who was apparently an old flame of the professor's, if what Marc said was correct) staring out the window at nothing, the professor staring at her with an absolutely expressionless face, and Malfoy watching the professor with troubled eyes.  
  
Hermione had been watching them all with big, curious eyes, drinking in this silent, ice-edged conflict, and Nick and Marc had been quietly, nonchalantly, playing cards. He and Ron had stared uncomfortably at nothing, and Brandon had held a tissue under his nose and glared viciously at the professor's back, looking away when the professor glanced at him every now and then.  
  
It had been utterly, unbearably silent.  
  
Finally, Draco had spoken. His voice, when it came, was filled with a new, odd strength, a confidence that Harry had never heard before. "I wish to Witness my father's death," he stated - not said, not asked, not demanded. He simply stated it as if it were inevitable that he would get his way.  
  
Harry waited for the Professor to say "no", but strangely enough, he didn't instantly dismiss Draco's statement. He took his gaze away from Kate's back, turned it on Draco in evaluation, in completely dispassionate measurement, and then raised an eyebrow, evidently inviting more information.  
  
Draco continued. "There must be a Witness when a Clan Lord dies," he said softly, in the same unnerving tone and in the curious manner of every High Clan child Harry knew, when they talked of their odd customs. "As the Heir, it is my right. My duty."  
  
Marc nodded in agreement, but said nothing. This was between Draco and his uncle, and nobody else.  
  
Luc finally spoke. "As the Heir, it is your duty to stay alive."  
  
Draco stared at him with expressionless eyes. "I was not proposing to go alone." He somehow stared challengingly at Luc without disturbing the dispassionate tone.  
  
Luc looked away from him and around the drawing room, taking in all seven of the students and Mrs. Greyson, and then back to Draco. "I have more than one obligation here," he said. "Would you have me take them as well?"  
  
Draco's mouth turned up in the merest hint of a smile. "Can you protect us all?"  
  
Luc shook his head, amused despite himself. "Not without great difficulty," he murmured absently, "not without resorting to old, old methods..." He turned his attention back to Draco. "You are convinced of this, Caius Draconis, son of Lucius?"  
  
Draco inclined his head.  
  
Luc closed his eyes almost as if he were in pain, and brought his hand up to cover his eyes. When he lifted his hand away and raised his eyes, Harry flinched back almost instinctively. They had gone silver. Not the blue-grey colour they normally were, but pure silver, and cold, oh so cold...the utterly feral gaze of a predator on the hunt. A predator with a decided taste for playing cruel games...  
  
Only Draco failed to react to this new side of Luc - Draco and Kate, who was still staring out of the window. She was still standing there, indifferent, when, coldly amused, Luc rose to his feet and led everyone else out of the drawing room. They'd walked through the old, elegant house, past paintings of past de Sauvigny ancestors and of past, long forgotten scenes, into the very heart of the house and into a masculine, ruthlessly organised office that seemed to be the tai-pan's lair, in this house at least. And there, behind the arrogant painting of a golden haired, handsome man in Regency clothing, looking down his nose at them with the coldest and most sardonic green eyes Harry had ever seen (Jean-Marc de Sauvigny, Marc whispered to him) was a carved wooden box.  
  
Unlocking it with almost reverent hands, Luc lifted the lid to reveal the faint scent of sandalwood and a cascade of black cloth that sent a chill down Harry's spine. Lifting the cloth, Luc shook it out to its full length, revealing a full length, stark black hooded robe - even without being worn, it seemed to exude a stark aura of menace. These robes would confer automatic, terrifying anonymity on the wearer - and the sense of invulnerability that would let them commit hideous acts.  
  
Death Eater robes.  
  
Harry wanted to say that he was surprised by this revelation, but he knew that Luc's actions on the Hogwarts Express had, subconsciously, told him that Luc was either an auror or a former Death Eater - and since Sirius had told him, quite emphatically, that Luc had never been an auror...  
  
Next, he pulled out a smooth, ivory mask - fitted to completely cover the face with openings only for the eyes, for breathing, and a small slit for the mouth. As Hermione and Ron gasped and the others watched in sick fascination, he held it in both hands, again almost reverently, and lifted it up to his face slowly...it was a perfect fit, and it masked any trace of his humanity instantly.  
  
Luc became colder and colder before their very eyes.  
  
Finally, at the very bottom of the box, was a pair of...muggle guns? Semi- automatics, sleek, streamlined and matte black with the cold functional beauty of the perfect killing weapons they were. They all, even the High Clan children, knew what they were...and their one and only function. They watched in almost stunned silence as he lifted them out, checked them, and pulled out four magazines of silver, enchanted bullets that would go through any shield, any spell, any defences...  
  
They'd been notorious, once - the mark and calling card of Voldemort's most effective and ruthless assassin. Those bullets, silent, swift and sure, had unerringly found their mark, eliminating most of the influential opposition to the Dark Lord's rise. There had been, at one point, nearly one million galleons on his head. There had never, ever, been any indication of his identity - no suspicions, no clues, no leaked information - nothing at all to show that Luc Malfoy himself, the tai-pan, had adapted a muggle weapon for use in the wizarding world...  
  
But they knew. And Harry knew that if they ever showed any inclination to share that information with the Ministry, he would dispatch them as coldly and as calmly as he had killed all the others. He had too much to lose now.  
  
And he was risking it all so Draco could Witness his father's death. Harry shook his head. The High Clan were a damned strange bunch.  
  
He only hoped this wouldn't lead to all their deaths - that was, he hoped Luc was as good as he thought he was. He rather thought, and it was not a happy thought, that Luc was every bit as good as his reputation and his self-confidence proclaimed him to be - and a good deal more, on top of that.  
  
And so here they were, in dark cloaks much like Luc's, with their faces blackened and camouflaged, looking rather like the American soldiers he had seen on television. They even had the hand signals - basic ones like "stop" and "go" because they hadn't had much time to prepare - and they were hiding in the forest around the entrance to Malfoy land. Or at least Luc assured them they were - it looked like the edge of a rather high cliff to him.  
  
And there was Voldemort - standing, like an ancient jungle shaman, with the light of the bonfire illuminating his bone white, serpentine features, pumping out malevolence so strongly the very air seemed to shimmer darkly around him. The Death Eaters, masked and cloaked and hooded, all gathered around in a circle, and a pale, white skinned man with long white hair was bound to a frame, with a tall, thin oddly graceful man standing over him threateningly.  
  


With a jolt Harry recognized Professor Snape as the tall, thin man - only he didn't look so evil or so menacing, now that he was surrounded by others who seemed more evil than he could ever dream of becoming...but what was he doing to Mr. Malfoy?  
  
And then, when he was concentrating on Snape, he heard Voldemort's strange, hissing voice. "Well, well, well..."  
  
***********************************************  
  
As soon as Luc heard Voldemort's hiss, he dived into action. Gathering his power and tapping into the residual well of power that existed this close to the Veil, he pulled a small but highly concentrated illusion around himself and the students - silence, lower than blood temperature heat/warmth stealth and not invisibility but reflection - and made with all speed for another part of the woods. Even as Voldemort finished speaking, the trees where they had been hiding exploded and caught fire.  
  
He wasn't even swearing, his concentration was so complete - it was a good thing Kate had stayed behind. She was absolutely hopeless in the woods...  
  
He moved again, eluding the destruction once more, and thus began a deadly game of cat and mouse - with the best of the Dark Lord's hunters, the most intelligent and the most deadly (Hartley, von Griff, Daratzanov, Forrester, de la Tour) as the cats, and his cunning and experience as the mouse's only chance. Wasn't it lucky that he was the absolute best of them all? Otherwise they'd all be dead within a minute...  
  
One minute. More taunting laughter, comments, and the silent knowledge that Snape was working on Lucius. Two minutes, and the hunt was in earnest - the hunters' interest whetted at the thought of a worthy chase.  
  
Three minutes. Four minutes, and he could feel his charges beginning to tire, the tension starting to get to them.  
  
Five minutes, and he could hear Voldemort gleefully detailing Snape's artistry, taunting him and Draco.  
  
Six minutes. Seven.  
  
Eight, and he could hear a whip crack, and the dull, sickening thud as it met flesh.  
  
Nine minutes, and Brandon nearly fell - the slight noise attracted the first hunter, Daratzanov the Russian tracker who could track the wind over cold stone - Luc met him with a cold, poisoned knife and slit his throat.  
  
Ten minutes, and after finding the Russian, the chase became personal. The whipping continued, and Voldemort informed them Snape was now turning to sense-enhancing potions, and possibly even dranath.  
  
Forrester and de la Tour fell, to the knife and to an illusion that the Malfoy power granted temporary reality.  
  
Von Griff, cunning, bestial and completely amoral, whom Luc had trained beside, almost trapped them - Luc dropped a thin wire around his throat and garroted him, keeping his thrashing limbs from causing any noise. It took a surprisingly long time - he had a thick neck and a very stubborn spirit. Afterwards, he retrieved the wire and wiped off the blood and other matter, slipped it back into his sleeve and ignored his student's revolted glances.  
  
Twelve minutes, and only Hartley was left - Hartley, whom Luc had trained personally, who had been the most apt student he'd ever had, other than Draco. Master and student, they knew each other's every move - only Luc hadn't been keeping in practice, and Hartely had. He had very probably surpassed his teacher now...  
  
If it hadn't been for the children, Luc would have actually been enjoying himself. There was nothing quite like the thrill of hunting the most cunning of the major predators - man. Especially a fully trained man. But the children slowed him down, and he knew that Hartley knew...  
  
Thirteen minutes, and he could feel the amplified and slightly out of control taste of the ardeur in the air - Lucius had been given dranath, then - Luc's senses, still slightly out of whack from his own dose, suddenly, uncontrollably responded to that with a corresponding rush of ardeur...it brought Hartley down on them, and unprepared, there was nothing to do but fight.  
  
A duel, because Hartley knew of his weakness in wand use, and because he knew Luc had been given veritaserum and could not rely on his ardeur...pulling out his wand, Luc matched curse for curse and hex for hex, but it was not enough, he was not quite fast or good enough for Hartley's unparalleled skill. And every second he delayed brought the rest of the Death Eaters down on his head.  
  
Rolling after he'd been knocked to the ground, he came up to his feet in a rush, threw a curse more for distraction than anything else, and spinning with the force of the counter-curse, used the momentum to pull out his gun and, robes still whirling around him, arm fully extended, pulled the trigger three times at point blank range, feeling the jolt of the recoil through his whole body. Hartley collapsed slowly, as the echoes of the shocking noise rang through the whole forest.  
  
Fifteen minutes, and the mouse had won.  
  
***********************************  
  
Lucius breathed slowly through his nose, concentrating on the physical action and not on the pain and desire coursing through his veins. Curse Snape for being such a successful torturer - when they'd been practicing in school, they'd never thought they'd one day turn that skill on each other. But then Lucius knew about loyalty, and the lengths one would go to in order to maintain it. He only hoped Dumbledore's trust was worth Snape's going through this much.  
  
He had heard Voldemort's words of welcome. What in the Lady's name was Luc doing here? Did he think he could take on the whole coven of Death Eaters by himself?  
  
Clenching his teeth, he concentrated enough that he could hear Voldemort's rage. Luc had eluded his most successful hunters...Lucius smiled mirthlessly, then hissed as Snape hit him with the Cruciatus again. Oh, Lady, it hurt! He'd been tortured before, but he'd never been subjected to the Potions Master's special attentions - it felt as if everything he was and everything that was him was being bitten by fire ants, fire rushed along his veins in an excruciating flood, and then everything was freezing cold, and the sensation was amplified a thousand fold by the dranath. And that was just the constant sensation that had been maintained ever since they had begun.  
  
Luc had come to Witness his death, he realized through the pain. And perhaps even to ensure that it did happen - if it came to the point where Voldemort realized what Lucius was trying to achieve, then Luc may have to kill him himself...  
  
The last, and most important act of a younger brother for his elder, of a Malfoy for his Clan Lord...he began to laugh silently, helplessly, shaking with pain and bitter, bitter amusement.  
  
******************************************  
  
Rayden stopped, listened, and identified the sudden, shocking sounds in the distance.  
  
Gunshots.  
  
So, Luc had resurrected his alter ego - he waved his aurors closer, and signed for them to close up on the bonfire they could all see on the horizon. It looked like the action would begin soon...  
  
************************************  
  
Realising it would be wasteful to send Death Eaters into the forest after them, Voldemort applied himself to getting them to come out of the forest. Direct force hadn't worked, so this time he tried persuasion.  
  
"Harry Potter," he called, almost crooned in his most hypnotic, powerful voice. "Come out of the forest, and you can save this fool, this wretch. Do you know who he is? He's no one important, just a random fool picked out to be an example because we knew you were coming tonight..."  
  
Ron, now that they were all closer to the edge of the forest, could see the circle clearly. He could also see, illuminated by the firelight, Harry's face. He almost groaned. It wore that grim, half haunted expression he got whenever he thought about his own role in the war and everyone who had died in his place.  
  
"This is your fault, Harry," Voldemort continued. Harry's face looked stricken. "But you can change his fate - come out of the forest, give yourself up for him..." He made a half-hearted attempt to rise, and fell back when Ron tugged on his arm and jerked him back down.  
  
"Don't be stupid, Harry," he whispered fiercely. "Sit down, he's just trying to lure us out."  
  
Deprived of Harry, the Dark Lord turned his attentions towards someone else. Someone with more demons and shadows in his past to manipulate. "My dear Lucien," he crooned gently, "why do you deny me? What have I done to deserve this? Come out to me, and we will embrace and all will be well..." Ron winced at such blatant blarney, but saw Luc's posture and went still - he was tense and stiff and on edge. There was something about what Snape was doing that he recognized. "Don't you recognize Snape's handiwork? He is most skilled - something he learned from his own father, so I'm told...he's treating your dear brother Lucius exactly as you treated your other dear brother, so long ago..."  
  
Luc looked stricken, even beneath the mask and all-enveloping cloak. And no wonder - public recognition that he'd offed his own brother (Caine, was it?) and in a very nasty way, too, if what Snape was doing was any indication. And just what was Snape doing here? Ron really didn't want to know...  
  
"You'll be responsible for the deaths of both brothers, now, Lucien," Voldemort continued, relentless in his venom. "Both of them dead in the exact same manner! How wonderfully ironic...but only come out of the forest, into the light, and I'll tell Snape to stop..."  
  
Luc did nothing, but his whole body vibrated with tension. His lack of reaction enraged Voldemort. "Fool! Muggle-loving fool! Watch him die, then! Sit there and do nothing!"  
  
He turned to Draco, this time. "Why let your father die for your uncle's fear and hatred, Draco? He sits there and just watches his own brother die - and for what? Why? Do you know? Because he has always hated Lucius," he hissed, "and he has always, even from the start, wanted to rule Beyond the Veil. The House was nothing to him - he's always aimed to be the Malfoy. And when your father dies, who will oppose him? You will be the only thing that stands in his way...will you let him kill you, too?"  
  
Voldemort's voice continued, venom and honey mixed in with just enough truth and lie to make his words almost plausible, almost believable. Ron had heard stories of the Christian devil, and of his temptation of Jesus in the desert. And so, it seemed, had the Dark Lord. Draco went extremely pale beneath the camouflage paint, and looked almost fearfully at his uncle, but still he did not come out of the trees.  
  
Thwarted of Draco, he turned to Nick and Marc, pulling their darkest fears and their greatest temptations out of their psyches, mixing Marc's most secret desire for his real father with tales of how Caine had died, how Luc had hated him, feared him, killed him...and holding out the chance to be first to Nick, swearing he would never have to walk behind anyone ever again...  
  
Poisoned words, striking deep into the hearts and minds, burrowing, leaving tiny seeds of discontent and distrust, fear and hatred and suspicion. Ron held his hands over his ears to stop the relentless, remorseless voice as it targeted Brandon, already more than ready to hate his mother and his blood father, who was a murderer, a Death Eater, an assassin, a bastard who had raped his mother and killed countless others...then Hermione, who was promised knowledge, the power to bring him down, the acceptance of like minds, not the ignorant fools she called friends...and Ron himself, who was promised glory and fame and the respect of all his fellows...  
  
And then, as they lay helpless under the force of the temptation and the compulsion, as the only sound was Voldemort's voice and Mr. Malfoy's occasional hisses and the blundering searching of the Death Eaters who were still searching for them, a foreign sound intruded.  
  
A "pop" of apparition. Aurors. Luc grabbed them all and pulled them all down, slithering on his belly to a sizeable clump of wet bushes (a fire retardant) and pulling them all along with him into the shelter. And just in time, as all hell broke loose around them.  
  
Luc started to laugh. "Rayden," he murmured, smiling in what looked suspiciously like relief. "How Gryffindoric of you, my dear..." and abjuring them all to stay where they were, he stood up and went to help, pulling his guns out and slinking silently off into the shadows.  
  
**************************************  
  
Of course he was not going to stay here and watch, thought Draco. Not now he had a chance to help his father. Ignoring the hissed warnings and the shocked questions of the others, he rose and pulled his wand, vanishing into the shadows with not quite as much grace and skill as his uncle, but headed in the opposite direction, towards Snape and Lucius. As he got closer, he could see that they were in some sort of argument - now that Voldemort and the others were distracted by the aurors, Snape could drop his Death Eater façade and show his concern for the Malfoy Lord. He could hear the words now.  
  
"Quickly, Sev, before they notice and come back - do it now," Lucius hissed softly through clenched teeth.  
  
Snape looked horrified. "What? Are you mad? I can't kill you, that's exactly what he wants."  
  
"Exactly! But my death will renew the Covenant again, this time with a younger, unmarked Lord..."  
  
"What's wrong with your Covenant?"  
  
"My Dark Mark corrupted it, corrupted the land...I'm slowly strangling it. Now will you stop arguing and just do it?" He tilted his head back obligingly. Snape picked up a long, slender knife and brought it up to Lucius' throat, looked into those eyes, so grey and so resolved, and was overwhelmed by memories. He tried again, tried to apply pressure, tried to draw blood from that white, white skin...but he couldn't do it. He simply couldn't.  
  
Scowling, he cut Lucius' ropes, put the knife in his hand and snarled, "Do it yourself!" before stalking off, deaf to everything Lucius shouted after him.  
  
Lucius couldn't do it himself - suicide was not one of the ways that the Blood, the Covenant, was passed on. He had to be Killed, and not by the source of his corruption, either, or the magic that would be unleashed by his death would be twisted. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be anyone else in sight - and then he heard the laughter, the chilling laughter that sapped courage and inspired endless nightmares.  
  
Voldemort.  
  
"Well, well, Lucius, you have been holding out on me..." He turned desperately, facing the Dark Lord, and stumbled painfully to his feet.  
  
Draco stood, frozen.  
  
Luc, fighting on the other side of the clearing, turned and witnessed the small, frozen tableau, taking in the situation with one glance. He dropped back, let another take his place, and moved to a space where he could have clear aim at Lucius.  
  
Rayden watched, alarmed at the situation he had stumbled into, and saw Luc taking aim, not at Voldemort, but at Lucius. "What are you doing?" he asked sharply, breaking Luc's concentration, earning a dark scowl for his efforts.  
  
"Shut up Rayden, I don't have time for this," Luc hissed almost desperately, seeing how much closer the Dark Lord had come. He took aim again, breathing slowly, and pulled the trigger.  
  
Rayden knocked the gun out of his hands, and the shot went awry. Luc rounded on him and Rayden, green eyes concerned, took out his wand to petrify him, but received the butt of the other gun across his cheek, knocking him backwards. He recovered and went in low, tackling him, ignoring Luc's hissed "You fool! You'll ruin everything!" - taking it as evidence of the Imperius, explaining why he'd just tried to kill his own brother. They lost precious seconds rolling on the ground wrestling for the gun, and Rayden, stronger and a better wrestler than Luc, came up victorious with a headlock on his friend. Thwarted, Luc saw that Voldemort had closed in, and he called out desperately to the only person close enough now to get to Lucius before him.  
  
"Draco! Draco, you have to do it now!" Rayden gasped in surprise and clapped a hand over his mouth, swearing viciously when Luc, pushed by desperation beyond all restraint, bit down hard on his hand.  
  
He shouted again. "Draco! Do it now! Now, Draco!" Anything else was smothered by Rayden's now gloved palm, and despite all his struggles he would not be budged.  
  
Draco was on his own, the only person standing between Voldemort and the land Beyond the Veil. And all he had to do was kill his father, and it would be safe from the Dark Lord forever. Huh. Easier said than done. This was his father! The white haired god who had taught him everything he knew, who had dominated his life with his wisdom, his teachings, his shaping, his discipline...Luc had taught him much, but it had been Lucius who was everything to Draco. His mother had been nothing, not even a voice in Draco's influences - Lucius, Lord Malfoy, had dominated his son's mind, soul, and heart...  
  
"Draco! Do it now!" He heard Luc's voice calling, heard the desperation, heard the clear desire - and he knew, rationally, that he had to, that it was for the best, but even so he heard an echo of Voldemort's insidious voice (he's always wanted to be Malfoy - once Lucius is gone, who will protect you?) and for a moment he doubted. Luc wanted to be Malfoy - was it because of this that he had insisted Lucius must die? Was it possible that he could live? For the smallest moment, he desperately wanted to believe it so.  
  
And in the moment of doubt, Voldemort moved in, wand raised and Avada Kedavra on his lips, and for the last, final chance Lucius' desperate grey eyes, the Malfoy eyes that every single scion of Malfoy Blood had ever born, met Draco's - the Lord and the Heir - and Draco knew the truth. Lucius had to die. His blood would feed the land, would purify it and renew it and cleanse the corrupted Covenant, and most important of all it would renew the Veil and ensure the safety of the Clan for the next thousand years...and Draco himself had to kill him.  
  
His lips formed silent words (Father, forgive me...) before he lifted the knife, and bent over the man who was his father, who was his sworn liege lord, who was everything to Draco, and steeling himself with a prayer to the Lady on his lips, he closed his eyes and plunged the knife home an instant before the flash of green light hit.  
  
*************************************  
  
The chilling, feral scream of rage drew them all out of the bushes where they had been hiding - Harry and Ron and Hermione and Brandon and Nick and Marc - and the first thing they saw was Draco, his hands stained crimson, bending blindly over his father's bleeding, still body. Then they looked up and saw the fleeing Death Eaters apparating, the aurors giving chase, and the white haired man who was holding Luc in a death grip, but was dressed in the navy robes of an auror.  
  
Professor Snape was standing, breathing heavily, still robed but with his hood down and his mask off, looking down at Draco and what had once been Lucius Malfoy. The auror warily released Luc, who straightened his robes pointedly and walked over to stand by Snape's side, joined soon by the other.  
  
Draco quivered, vibrating with the force of his emotions, although his face was completely blank. Luc made an odd gesture as if he reached out to touch him, but thought better at the last moment and withdrew his hand. Lucius' blood was crimson and slightly viscous, bright against his white skin - it vanished when it touched the ground, absorbed by the land, hungry for the sacrifice that would restore the balance and the Covenant.  
  
As they all watched, the skin on Draco's white forearms suddenly broke open, forming an inch-long slash on each arm just above the wrist that started to fill with crimson blood, suddenly welling until it overflowed and trickled down his arms and onto his hands, the stigmatic mark of the true Lord of Clan Malfoy. This was the blood that, shared with the land and the people, formed the Covenant - when the Lord gave his blood and even his life for the land, it was meant quite literally...  
  
An unmarked, uncorrupted Lord to bring balance and life back to the land Beyond the Veil. And the price? Why, the King must die. That is all, and everything...and surely a small price to pay, for the greater good of the Clan and the Land?  
  
But at the moment, Luc and Draco didn't quite appreciate the thought.  
  
*********************************************  
  



	18. Recovery

Disclaimer – I don't own Harry Potter. Don't sue me.

CHAPTER 18 - RECOVERY  
  


  
Caius Draconis Malfoy, the new Lord of High Clan Malfoy, laid his palms flat against the invisible, undetectable barrier that separated the Malfoy land from the world Outside. He was still bleeding, and the blood on his hands was absorbed into the Veil, confirming his identity as surely as muggle handprint scans and DNA tests did. With a subliminal hum, the world...shifted, twisted...the Veil seemed to shimmer, to solidify and become almost visible - and then it...parted. And revealed a green, ancient land, magical in its very timelessness, and a deep, fundamental power that seemed to run like blood through the veins of the land...like rivers of fiery blood through the very bedrock itself. Here...here was the Heartland.  
  
Here was Draco's home. And he had never been so glad to see it.  
  
There were three main towns under Malfoy jurisdiction - every one of them an exclusively magical settlement much like Hogsmeade, without the interference of Hogwarts students. Most of the villagers were content with life as it was, and only a very rare minority ever ventured Outside, because they wanted adventure, or independence...some, like Owen Llyndas, simply wanted out.  
  
Approximately the same age as Draco's father and uncle, Owen had left his family and his home for the Outside world when he'd been sixteen...and as far as he knew, had not been back since. And yet here he was, in Auror's robes of all things (and why hadn't Luc or Uncle Rayden told him of this?) waiting for the sad little procession of Draco, his six fellow students, his uncle and Snape and Rayden and his father's...corpse, as if he'd known they were coming.  
  
Of course he had known - they'd all known it, when the blood bond snapped, when the brief, terrifying feeling of (emptiness? It had been the first time Draco had not felt the magical link to his father, to the Lord) or perhaps the feeling that he had no ties to anyone or anything, and that everything that had once anchored him (the Covenant, the Blood bond, the father-son bond) was gone, and he was alone in the world.  
  
It was a terrifying feeling to a people who were bound to the Lord almost from birth. He wondered, absently, whether any of the Gryffindors, many of whom he knew had no ties or no bonds, ever felt the terrible loneliness of the true individual, of a man alone in the world. Without bonds, without a Clan, without land, without people who relied on you and on whom you relied - was that what true independence was? Was that the legacy of the Renaissance and the Revolution and their emphasis on man, on individualism, on democracy? He didn't know how Owen Llyndas had stood the separation all these years.  
  
As they got closer, he could see the two others standing by Llyndas' side - the two remaining members of the Nine Companions, the two who had survived answering Draco's call to the Hogwarts Express. There had been another, the ninth, who had stayed behind to guard Lucius...but after Lucius had been captured in his absence, when he had not been there, he would have committed suicide in his shame and dishonour, to accept responsibility and to assume the guilt. He had not fulfilled his duty, and his Lord had died because of it. Nothing less than death could assuage his shame.  
  
The two Companions dropped to their knees as he came level with them - behind his back he could feel Potter and his friends' astonishment and amusement, but this was more important than childish quarrels or embarrassment. "My lord," they said softly, fervently, and then looked up at him with utter faith and belief in their eyes - now that he was the Lord they believed that he could keep them safe, that he could keep the land safe, that he could perform miracles and jump tall buildings in a single bound. He almost protested out loud - he was not the Lord, he couldn't be the Lord, he couldn't solve his own problems, let alone everyone else's...he was not wise enough, or ruthless enough, or even strong enough to carry them all and the land as well...he was only fifteen, for the Lady's sake!  
  
He didn't deserve the faith in their eyes.  
  
And then he looked into Owen's skeptical eyes - dark eyes of a man born and bred Beyond the Veil but who had grown up and matured in the real world, of a man who had lost his belief in the myth of the Malfoy and who had lost something fundamentally precious...and deep, deep down, wanted, no, needed to regain that belief, but didn't believe that Draco could ever measure up.  
  
He looked into Luc's eyes - light, silver eyes of a man also born and bred Beyond the Veil who had grown up and matured in the real world, in pain and blood and ambition, but despite all the bitterness and the pain and disillusionment had never, ever lost his belief in the magic - perhaps it had been the only thing to sustain him, the dream of the land Beyond the Veil and the heart of the Grove - deep, dark, tangled and mysterious and pulsing with all the magic and the mystery and the power that was the heart of Clan Malfoy...  
  
Luc had had a hand in his shaping, in his raising, in his moulding, and he believed that Draco could be everything he had ever dreamed of becoming, everything that the Clan Lord Malfoy should be and ever had been...fifteen years old or not. And, strengthened by that belief, challenged by the skepticism in Owen's eyes, driven by the memory of his father's eyes and the thought of vengeance, he held out his hand, palm upwards, to the people who were now his.  
  
They took the blood that still ran freely from his wounds (this is my blood, which shall be given up for you...) and drank it, and he could feel it, feel the bonds forming and solidifying, feel them as a part of him that he could, if he wanted to, control - if he tugged on that, if he squeezed on this, he could break them, or heal them, or destroy them completely. Blood had dripped onto the Veil, onto the Earth, and had been absorbed - he could also feel them as separate entities to be controlled, or healed, or broken...and he could feel that they, too, could, if they chose, if he broke the Covenant, heal, or break, or destroy him too...  
  
One by one they came - the villagers, the servants, the people of the Malfoy, to pay homage to their new Lord and to renew and reaffirm their vows and bonds. Every single one of them, from the oldest grandparents to the infants only a day old, partook of the sacred wine as he bled, and gave themselves over to him, in the trust and belief that he could walk beside them in the good times and carry them in the bad, that he was strong enough to shoulder the burden and the responsibility, that he was wise enough to chart a course through these treacherous times, and that he would never, ever abandon them.  
  
He looked into Luc's silver, silver eyes, and saw the one thing that Luc had always, always kept hidden from him before - the intense, soul deep desire and the need to be where Draco was, to receive blood bond and to walk in the Malfoy grove as Lord, not as bastard son, not as the tai-pan. Luc had wanted, all his life, to be the Malfoy...but he had stayed his hand when Voldemort could have brought them both down, he had saved Draco's life when he could have watched and have everything he ever wanted fall into his hand without lifting a finger. Because he was a bastard son. Because he, too, bore a Dark Mark. Because somewhere, deep under the determination and the ambition, was a man who believed in the sanctity of Clan Malfoy, and would not come to the leadership with wrongful blood on his hands, as the boy had done with the de Sauvigny.  
  
Perhaps just because he loved his nephew.  
  
And then he blinked, and it was gone.  
  
With a curious smile, he turned away, leaving Draco and the others alone with the crowd, and walked towards the Castle rising in the distance - a lone figure with one last thing to take care of, before his Lord could enter in triumph and take his rightful place.  
  


* * *

  
  
Luc walked into the Castle, the ancestral home of the Malfoy, and experienced the same thrill of pride and, to his deepest, most secret shame, covetousness, that he always did. It was a fortress on the outside, with sheer, grey, stone walls to compliment the formidable magical wards and defences, and a luxurious, magnificent palace on the inside...and it was his home in the real, truest sense of the word. He belonged here, as he didn't belong in the sprawling country seat of the de Sauvigny - but then, he'd always been good at compromising and making do. In his experience, asking for everything inevitably meant you got nothing at all. He'd learned, over the years, to settle for what he could get, and had turned his energies towards supporting others in their reaching for everything and more.  
  
Hence this one last item of unfinished business, which stood in the way of Draco truly becoming the Lord.  
  
Striding on soft, silent feet through the corridors he had grown up in, had played and ran and quarreled in, he moved with utter surety towards his destination, any house elves he saw moving instinctively away from him, wary of the determination in his step and the cold, terrifying purpose in his eyes. Long, long years serving the family had taught them to recognize the danger signs - and also never, ever to interfere in a family quarrel...  
  
He reached the east drawing room and entered silently, but nevertheless she heard him and turned around to face him, her cold, beautiful face utterly composed and unsurprised.  
  
"Hello, Narcissa," he said softly, almost sibilantly.  
  
She didn't flinch, didn't raise an eyebrow, did nothing but stare at him with cold, empty blue eyes.  
  
"Is he dead?" she finally asked.  
  
He looked at her, with her perfect coiffure and her perfectly made up face, her perfect gown and manner, with her ice blue eyes disdainful and arrogant. She looked at him, with his torn and bloodstained Death Eater robes and his bloodied hands, with his hood down showing his mussed and disheveled hair, his face set and white and his eyes feral in their fixed intensity. They'd always hated each other - she, because he was a bastard who to her mind should have been drowned at birth, but refused to know his proper place, he because she knew nothing of responsibility or duty or honour, and hungered blindly for power for no real purpose or goal. Over the years, more and more reasons became apparent, and the hatred grew and grew...  
  
Until this.  
  
"Yes," was all he said.  
  
"So you have finally got what you wanted, then?" Her voice was tinged with scornful amusement, as if the thought of Luc's most secret dream was unbearably diverting.  
  
He smiled, and it was not by any means a nice smile. "Not quite," and his voice was silky, purring, and it sent a warning shiver down her spine. She took a step back, only to come up hard against the window - as she turned to look, the latch clicked shut with awful finality.  
  
He didn't move. "You did not come out to greet Draco," he said with dangerous softness. "Perhaps the thought of becoming the Dowager was...insupportable."  
  
Something in the way he said that terrified her. This was not Luc Malfoy, who could have been great but who had crippled himself when Kate died (and hadn't that day been sweet). This was a man, a very dangerous, unpredictable man whom she had never before seen - a conscienceless, merciless, feral killer...  
  
She tried to back up even further, but it was not possible. She was held in invisible, unbreakable chains. She raised her chin and treated him to all the withering contempt she could muster. With a light, brittle laugh, she said, "Perhaps the thought of watching the wonderfully affecting scene was enough to make me sick. The belief the peasants have in their little rituals would almost be touching, if it weren't so pathetic, and if it wouldn't be shattered when the Dark Lord comes."  
  
He smiled. She almost flinched. "Dear Narcissa, but that didn't stop you from spilling all you could to your Lord." She opened her mouth in instant denial, but he flicked a hand and an invisible force closed around her throat - not squeezing, not yet, but warning. "Dear, dear Narcissa," he moved closer and closer until he was chest to chest with her, his head bent so he could whisper softly, his voice sibilant and almost crooning, "If only you'd truly listened to the old tales - then you wouldn't have fucked up" (she flinched as his voice lashed out) "your advice and told Voldemort the exact thing that would free us all from his rule..."  
  
She was quivering, despite all her determination, and she knew he could smell her terror - he lowered his mouth and pressed smooth, incredibly gentle kisses on her shoulders, her neck, and inhaled the scent of her fear and the reluctant desire he'd deliberately aroused with the contrasts of his threats and his gentleness...when he came to her ear, one of her most erogenous zones, he whispered again, almost inaudibly, "If you had only kept him alive for, at the most, six more months, the Veil would have failed on its own, and you would have been able to have your so-desired, so- dreamed of revenge...but your lust for power and your hatred all drove you to destroy him - and with his death, with his...sacrifice" (she shivered) "with your long awaited revenge, the failing, corrupted Covenant was replaced with a new, untainted Lord..."  
  
She froze - all thoughts of Luc's rumoured prowess as a lover, all thoughts of pain and desire and twisting him around her finger with sex were shattered as she processed what he had said.  
  
"The Dark Lord won't be coming any time soon," he murmured in satisfaction, "and you will not be getting your soulless claws into the new Lord...in fact, you will no longer sink your poisoned claws into anything, anymore...dear, dear Narcissa..."  
  
With a final effort of will she broke the hypnotic spell of his voice and tried to jerk away, only to find the phantom pressure gone and a real, flesh and blood hand at her throat.  
  
Luc had always liked to take care of his own dirty work.  
  
She had one last second to look into his pitiless, remorseless silver eyes (so like Lucius', so insufferably strong, so willing to take on any amount of pain for their cursed "greater good") before the world was replaced by a rush of blood red, excruciating pain. And then, eventually, after an eternity, after an age of nothing but agony, Luc allowed her world to go black, and then eventually fade away to nothing.  
  
Looking down at what had once been a beautiful, soulless woman, Luc felt nothing, only a distant pain and fatigue. "This is not revenge," he murmured more to himself than to her shade. "This is justice."  
  


And then he walked out, and closed the door, without looking back once.  
  


* * *

  
  
It was some time later when the rest of the procession made it through the doors of the castle - the crowd, and the necessity of reaffirming their Vows, had delayed Draco and the rest by some two hours, and in that time, much had happened. The house had been draped in black, and the Great Hall had been prepared to receive the late Lord's remains - a bier had been constructed and every superfluous trapping had been cleared away, leaving only the bare bones of the original castle. Just so would Lucius depart - taking only what he was originally born with, and nothing else.  
  
And the door to the eastern drawing room remained firmly closed - the house elves, wise to the unspoken undercurrents of their masters, knew better than to interfere with whatever had occurred behind that door...  
  
But Harry, Ron and Hermione were not so tactful. As the group all walked past the closed door on their way to the hall, they all sensed the evil that had gone on inside, but the others, High Clan born and bred, merely exchanged wary glances and decided to leave well enough alone. The three Gryffindors found it irresistible to peek, and so eased the door open and all but tiptoed in, rushing out almost immediately after. Hermione was sheet white, and having trouble breathing, Ron stumbled against the wall and tried not to retch, and Harry simply hugged himself and shivered as if he were icy cold.  
  
Looking at them, the others all closed their eyes in resignation, Snape and Rayden's eyes wearier by far than the childrens', because of them all, they knew what they would find behind the door. But nevertheless, they opened it and went in.  
  
Ten minutes later, Rayden and Snape were quiet, staring out the window; Draco sat completely impassive, forcing himself to look at the grisly sight; Marc and Nick were sitting by themselves, (strangely Marc seemed to be more composed than Nick, but he was the one in training to be Clan Lord...) and Harry, Hermione and Ron steadfastly ignored the very obvious problem. Brandon, his senses numb for now, watched them all in something very like fascination.  
  
Not one of them had freaked, or screamed, or shouted...they'd tried, very hard, to act as if there wasn't a very messy dead body not five metres away from them - in the case of the High Clan members of their group, they'd succeeded admirably. They hadn't even blinked. The Gryffindor dream team, as he'd heard Professor Snape call them once or twice, had reacted at first, but had soon after regained their composure, if a little shakily. Even Ron, perhaps the most open of them all, had managed to get a hold of himself. So this was what his mother had called the British "stiff upper lip". It seemed some things were common to all British people, not just any single class.  
  
And some things were very definitely the sole area of the High Clan - there, in the flesh, was Rayden Lestrange, the Minister of Defence (and wasn't that a kick? The man was almost certainly an ex-Death Eater) whose job it was to uphold the safety and laws of the wizarding people, and he looked down at a very grisly execution and said nothing, remarked on nothing, and pretended to not even notice it all. So, too, had the other High Clan children - they'd taken one look at it and turned away, putting it from their minds.  
  
It was a vengeance killing, of course - Luc's work, he was more than sure of it (why didn't he admit it outright? It was his father's work; his father was an ex-Death Eater and a murderer, a killer the likes of which he had never seen, a man whose ruthlessness was infamous in all the worst and darkest circles).  
  
And they all knew, and they all said nothing. Some things were better left alone.  
  
A light, almost inaudible step, Rayden's white head came up, followed by Snape's, his eyes haunted and his face grimmer and darker than ever. A small, almost rueful hiss, (wasn't it strange that he could interpret sounds, gestures and glances now? He must be becoming more and more used to Slytherins), and the door opened to reveal Luc, (his father) dressed in clean robes and with his face and hands now washed clean of blood. It was surprising how, now that he was cleaned up and once more dressed in normal clothes, he had once again resumed the pleasant-but-still-slightly- aloof mask he wore everyday. There was no sign of the cold, analytical ruthlessness that was such a part of his soul. He was Luc Malfoy, safer than his late brother, fit to rule a House that stood halfway between the High Clan and the rest of society, with an attitude to match.  
  
He said nothing - Brandon wasn't sure there was anything to say. Narcissa Malfoy's remains said it all - and it was all damning. Finally Draco spoke - perhaps because he was now the highest ranked among them, and they had let him take the lead, or perhaps because it was his mother's body there on the floor, and that had given him the right. Bran wasn't quite sure.  
  
"Why?" was all Draco asked of his uncle.  
  
Luc slowly pulled his gaze away from the rest of them and from what had once been a woman and turned it towards his nephew's - it was an expressionless gaze, if such a thing could be said. "I thought you had enough blood on your hands."  
  
Snape flinched, then quickly controlled it. Rayden winced, imperceptibly. Nick and Marc pursed their lips slightly. But Draco did nothing. "This was my right," Draco said eventually. "He was my father."  
  
"She was your mother," was all Luc said. "And he was my brother."  
  
Silver eyes met, and locked, and eventually Draco lowered his gaze. Magnanimous in victory, Luc offered one last explanation. "I would spare you the further stain on your soul, Draco. Let it lie on mine - one more death will not change my fate, one way or another..."  
  


* * *

  
  
Snape made the mistake of sneering at just the wrong moment. Whirling, Luc thrust his hand out at the potions master and the force of his ardeur flung the man backwards into the wall, pinned him against it so that he couldn't move, and was stuck with arms spread eagled like a macabre, ragged scarecrow against the delicate ivory and gold wallpaper. They all hissed in shock, in fear at the sudden surge of power (Snape was a very powerful wizard, for all of his disdain for "foolish wand waving" - Luc had smashed through his shields almost effortlessly) but the feral light was back in Luc's eyes and the vicious rage that had momentarily been assuaged by Narcissa's very nasty death had returned in full.  
  
This was another facet of the Malfoy passion. Uncontrolled temper was dangerous, but was rarely provoked or even encountered. The dangerous, ice cold feral rage was far, far worse. In this temper, unforgivable acts seemed all too plausible, even reasonable...and the bonds of a lifetime, already weakened by Snape's earlier revelations, could be smashed beyond repair. Luc was not in the grip of uncontrollable temper or rage. He was quite, quite lucid, capable of stunningly quick thought and reasoning processes - but he was in the mood for violence, the earlier bloodshed only whetting his deepest, darkest appetites. The scent of fresh blood only pushed his animalistic, instinctive side even further towards the surface.  
  
"You were saying, Severus?" he asked almost pleasantly.  
  
Snape opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it and seemed to sag, until the magical bonds were the only things holding him upright. Rayden made as if to protest, but then thought better of it and subsided. He wasn't going to step between Luc Malfoy and his prey.  
  
When Snape finally opened his eyes, he had stripped away every pretence, every Mask, every defence he had ever employed to save face, to protect himself, to disguise his true intentions. This was the real Severus Snape, something that no one had ever truly seen, least of all Snape himself. The black eyes were full of guilt, of self-loathing, of pain...it was almost too painful, too intimate to watch. The others all looked away in discreet courtesy, but Luc, the interrogator, the questioner, judge and jury and, if needed, executioner, watched and analysed with pitiless silver eyes.  
  
"I would apologise," he finally managed to choke out. "Lucius wanted me to end it, and I had not the courage..." he forced himself to meet those eyes. "There was too much between us, and I could not do it no matter how hard I tried..."  
  
"You nearly broke us all," Luc said mercilessly.  
  
"I could not!" Snape hissed suddenly. He closed his eyes again in defeat, "I could not..." his voice trailed away into silence.  
  
Still Luc watched. Finally Snape raised his head again and looked almost defiantly into Luc's eyes. "You know as well as I what stands between us, Lucien. Between all three of us. There was too much unresolved, too many unspoken issues...too many ties, sealed incestuously with blood and sex and death. I could not press that blade in."  
  
Rayden was nodding unconsciously. He knew, he had watched, over the years, as the two brothers and their reluctant companion were bound tighter and tighter, thread by thread, intimacy by intimacy. He also knew that Luc or Lucius, had they been in Snape's position, would have had the strength and the necessary ruthlessness, the willingness to hurt others and even themselves if they thought it justified, if they thought it for the greater good.  
  
That was not always a good thing.  
  
Rayden didn't blame Snape, really...not being of Malfoy blood, neither of them would have had the strength to kill Lucius. He had simply shone too brightly for them to even bear the thought of quenching that light - it had taken another with the requisite strength to do what had needed to be done. Snape was not Malfoy. Rayden was not Malfoy. And that was the joy and the terror of it. Blood sheds blood. The king is struck down by his successor. Perhaps it was a good thing that Snape had not been strong enough.  
  
Luc was still pinning Snape against the wall, staring through him blindly. Seeing something dark and dangerous swirl in those eyes, Snape was reduced to almost begging. "What would you have me do, Luc? Even my skills with Potions cannot bring him back - I cannot put a stopper in what has already occurred..."  
  
Slowly, Luc's eyes refocused. He looked at Snape for a very long time, and a slow, slow, feline smile began to form on his lips. Involuntarily, Snape pressed himself back against the wall, for he had seen that smile before. "Well," purred Luc, "perhaps there is one little thing you can do for me..."  
  
****************************************


	19. Loose Ends

Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. Don't sue me.

  
CHAPTER 19 - LOOSE ENDS  
  


  
Severus knew that smile, knew that tone of voice - and it meant nothing but trouble. But what else could he do? He slumped even further down in his chains - "What?" Distressingly blunt, but he was too tired to play games anymore.  
  
Luc, strangely enough, looked to Draco, as if for permission. When Draco raised a questioning brow, he offered his hands (and everything they were capable of), palm upwards, not to the new Lord, but to his nephew. To his brother's son. A request from an uncle to his nephew - the same uncle who had killed Narcissa himself rather than let Draco bear the price, the godfather who had sworn to protect him from anything and anyone who would threaten him. Clever Luc, to shape his request in that way - one of the most sacred relationships in the High Clan - or perhaps, knowing the oddly honourable streak in the Malfoy psyche, it was sincerely made, politics taking second place to honour...  
  
Draco knew what he was offering. They all knew. It would rock the foundations of the wizarding world and make them any number of enemies - or rather, it would bring them all out into the open. And if he were caught, if it was not interpreted correctly, it would condemn Luc, in all eyes, beyond all hope of recovery.  
  
Some things simply must be done, no matter the consequences. Better he take the risk than Draco.  
  
With understanding in his eyes, fifteen year old Draco Malfoy, who in the hours since he'd taken over his father's mantle had matured immeasurably, formally inclined his head in the High Clan manner of acceptance. "So be it," he murmured finally.  
  
Luc nodded, and then turned back to Severus and Rayden. "Listen," he said quietly, seriously. "This is what we will do..."  
  
*******************************  
  
Oh, Luc, thought Snape with ancient grief...how much can you carry, how much can you take, before you break? Can you carry the young Lord, still grieving and shocked, who is not quite as strong as he tries to appear? Can you carry us all when you yourself are still bleeding?  
  
How far would you go for those you love, Luc?  
  
Meeting Luc's eyes before he left, he saw the answer he had always, subconsciously known.  
  
All the way. As far, and as long, as he could.  
  
*************************************  
  
Midnight.  
  
Asleep, safe in their bed, Thomas Goyle and his long-term mistress, Serena Parkinson, didn't hear the latch open soundlessly, or hear the silent, purposeful movements of the assassin. They had passed out, drunk on celebrating their victory over Lucius Malfoy, whom they had both admired and hated, emulated and despised. But they woke up eventually, before the end, to face the true consequences of fucking with the Malfoy.  
  
In quick succession, others followed. Parkinson. MacNair. Nott. Bulstrode. Flint. Wilkinson. Every single Death Eater who had been present on that day and who had watched Lucius die. Even the ones in custody. Perhaps the only exception was Wormtail, but getting at Pettigrew would take more than he was willing to give at the moment, even for Lucius. No, it was best to wait until later, until the stage was set, and bring master and the servant both down together.  
  
Every single Death Eater who had been present at the Veil, with the exception of Peter Pettigrew and Severus Snape, was executed that night in the ancient manner of a vengeance killing, taken in their beds, in their mistresses, in their studies, in their euphoric glee at finally besting the Malfoy, no matter that the Aurors had intervened at the last minute. Lucius Malfoy was dead. And, like the last time they had brought down a Malfoy, almost twenty years ago, there was only a young boy to avenge him...they were safe from any possible reprisal. He wouldn't challenge the Dark Lord himself.  
  
They were, all of them, quite rudely disillusioned.  
  
When it was finished, the silent killer left as he entered - silently, imperceptibly, leaving no trace. Only one identifying mark was left - an indication, a sign, which said everything that needed to be said. And nothing else.  
  
*******************************************  
  
And the other item of business that night, an act he had not asked permission to perform, for which he no moral or traditional authority - well, this he would do because he, himself, Luc Malfoy, wished to, and for no other reason. Oh, he could make up a cover story about regaining face and credibility, but the truth was...  
  
It was murder, and he didn't care.  
  
This act would not serve towards the greater good or towards the furthering of a goal, it would not, in any way, make life better for any under his care...it was pure self-gratification, and it was quite, quite unlike him to act in such a selfish manner. In fact, he was not sure he'd ever done anything just for himself, not for ambition or for the Clan.  
  
It was surprising how good it felt. Not for the first time, he was grateful for Snape's unparalleled skill with poisons...  
  
***************************************  
  
Dane Harcourt was getting old, and he didn't like it. He could feel forty creeping up slowly behind him, and watching all the younger, fresh faced new recruits, all so eager and idealistic, didn't help him at all. Surely he had never been that innocent, so sure of the righteousness of his Cause and his chosen path. And then he smiled. Of course he hadn't. He was High Clan Slytherin, and always would be, no matter where life took him. He had never been that innocent - it had been trained out of him before he started school by his father in the name of discipline and education. His father had never been a Death Eater, but had had the same expectations of his children, the same values and standards, as even the strictest of the darker, older families.  
  
It had been a shock to find out that not all parents taught their children with the Cruciatus...  
  
After his father was killed by Death Eaters, Dane had made the decision to become an Auror - to publicly turn against the Dark Lord and any who supported him. It had outraged his classmates and even some of his own family, and if he had not been the Lord the whole Clan would have disowned him. As it was, there had been discussion of it...  
  
The Aurors themselves, who had been desperate for new recruits, had almost refused him. It had taken nearly two years of constant antagonism and distrust, of training directly under Mad-Eye Moody himself just in case he proved to be a spy, before he was even marginally accepted. He smiled somewhat wryly. He still wasn't completely sure whether Moody trusted him.  
  
However, at the grand age of thirty nine, after nearly twenty years as a full Auror, he was acknowledged as a valued part of the Corps, if not a particularly liked one. His expertise in High Clan thinking, his knowledge of their methods and their mindset had been invaluable in the last war against Voldemort and it seemed as though it would be needed again soon. He sighed, closing his eyes tiredly. He had returned, even if Fudge refused to acknowledge it, and he was gearing up to launch a full scale war waged with terrorist tactics, aiming not for revolution this time but for outright destruction.  
  
And the allies they had weren't much help. Yesterday's farce, and the resultant infiltration of Death Eaters into the Ministry building itself had started a panic that was psychologically devastating. Damn Greyson. Damn him and his zeal to the lowest reaches of hell. He had brought things to a confrontation they hadn't been ready to face, and had caused chaos on an unimaginable scale. Diplomatic immunity or no, if Dane hadn't been a sworn officer of the law, he would have killed the bastard himself.  
  
Still lost in cold outrage, he didn't hear the junior aide knock and stared right through her until his eyes focused again. She squeaked as she met his jaded, ancient eyes, remembering all the stories she'd ever heard about Dane Harcourt... And then remembered herself. "Ah, sir, Auror Moody says you're to come immediately, sir."  
  
He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing and kept staring at her. She flushed painfully, but still managed to meet his gaze. Finally he almost smiled, and flicked his hand, dismissing her.  
  
It was time to go see what was so urgent.  
  
************************  
  
The Clarington, one of the major hotels in wizarding London, catered for aristocratic and wealthy patrons, and delivered service to match. That meant exquisite food, music, décor, invisible staff and utter discretion. Perhaps Thomas Goyle and Serena Parkinson had thought they would be safe here.  
  
Apparently that was not so.  
  
Moody met him at the door to the suite, face even grimmer than usual. "Look at this," he said curtly.  
  
Dane followed him in curiously. "Death Eaters? Killing these two?"  
  
Moody snorted. "Not unless they've changed their signal since the last time."  
  
Dane stopped and stared at Moody. He didn't like where this was going. But he made himself go on. Yes, it was exactly as he remembered from twenty years ago - Augustus Snape staked out on the cobbles of Diagon Alley, broken almost beyond recognition...just as these two were. Terrified even in death, still frantically trying to escape - and there, over their left forearms this time - not over the heart, as last time - running through the bloated abomination of their Dark Marks (and another pair of Death Eaters outed), were three parallel diagonal slashes, running diagonally from top right to bottom left.  
  
He bent down to take a closer look - the junior officer in training, who had heard wild stories about Harcourt, bending down with him - and made a soft hissing sound in satisfaction. "You know what it is, Moody," he said looking up at his mentor. "Why did you bring me in?"  
  
"I don't know shit about what this is, and you know it," said Moody irritably. "You're the High Clan expert. You tell me what this is and who did it."  
  
Dane only sighed, conscious of the fascinated rookie. "It's a vengeance killing," he said shortly. "A ritual execution, all done exactly as the Law demands." The rookie opened his mouth, but Dane forestalled him. "The ancient tradition, the High Clan Law, allows killing done in vengeance - an eye for an eye, a life for a life. There is no punishment, no crime, in a vengeance killing. It's perfectly legal, except that it does tend to start blood feuds." He smiled somewhat grimly, thinking of how close he had come to treading this same path. "You can see it here - the mark of the killer, so that the Lady, and everyone else concerned, can see who took this life, and judge whether or not it was justified." He indicated the three diagonal cuts on the arm.  
  
"Do you know what that symbol means, Smythe?" he asked the rookie.  
  
"No sir," Smythe flushed. Dane didn't snort, as Moody did. He was a good kid, a little wet behind the ears maybe, a little naïve in all his Gryffindor idealism...but he had potential. It was not his fault he was straight, conventional middle class.  
  
"It's the symbol of Clan Malfoy," he said. "Now what does that tell you?"  
  
"That a Malfoy did it?" Dane fought not to wince.  
  
"Why? And which one?"  
  
"For vengeance, like you said...vengeance for what?" Smythe asked belatedly, finally showing that he did indeed have independent thoughts. "Does this have something to do with what happened yesterday?" He stopped to think it through. "Luc Malfoy got away, and so did the son, Draco. That leaves Lucius, doesn't it? Was he killed?" The look on Dane's face answered his question. "So this was either Draco or the uncle, Luc."  
  
"And is a fifteen year old boy capable of doing this?" he asked excitedly.  
  
Dane smiled cruelly, momentarily smashing his illusions. "Yes," was all he said softly.  
  
"Oh." Smythe swallowed. "Then how do you know who did it?"  
  
"The symbol," Dane said. "This is the symbol of the whole Clan - past and present and future. Had the Heir done this, he would have used his own individual mark, to show that he avenged his father, acting as a son. The use of the Clan's symbol indicates that the vengeance is taken on behalf of the whole Clan - and that suggests an enforcer. An avenger chosen to fulfill the revenge..."  
  
"So Luc?" asked Smythe.  
  
"So it seems..." he murmured softly. "If so, there will definitely be more like killings..." he looked up, amused, at the horror on Smythe's face. "Surely you didn't think that only these two participated in Lucius' death?"  
  
Almost on cue, another Auror came into the room and whispered in Moody's ear. "There's another one," he said grimly. "And about five others scattered around that we have found. And..." he looked down at Dane with a very sour face. "It looks like you're right, Harcourt. The Malfoy is dead. Lestrange himself condescended to send us word."  
  
Dane smiled unpleasantly. Rayden Lestrange, one of the Malfoy brothers' best friends, whose money had taken him to the position on Minister of Defence, was not one of Moody's favourite people. But no matter how bitterly Moody griped, the fact was that Lestrange was a very capable administrator who knew how to play the Game while remaining true to the spirit of his job... He was, quite simply, too aristocratic for Moody's taste. And he was too close to the Malfoy and the darkest shadows of the High Clan for Dane's.  
  
"What does the esteemed Minister have to say about these killings?" Dane was sure that Rayden knew what was going on. The man knew everything, through sources that he himself was quite comfortable to remain ignorant of.  
  
"The esteemed Minister, Mr. Rayden Lestrange, calls the killings acts of justice and, while he does not condone them, he does not condemn the perpetrator for acting as he was, by all the laws of the God and the High Clan, only too entitled to act..." The other auror, (Owen Llyndas? What was he doing here?) quoted sardonically.  
  
Moody scowled at him too. "What are you doing here, Llyndas? I thought you'd gone back home. And come to think of it, don't you come from Malfoy land? You shouldn't be anywhere near these killings."  
  
Llyndas smiled unpleasantly. "The minister commands, and I obey. The Malfoy speaks, and I do his bidding."  
  
"Which one comes first, though?" Dane asked, equally sardonic.  
  
Llyndas smiled, half bitter, half rueful. "That is the question..." He looked Dane in the eye. "And I think you know the answer better than I."  
  
Moody swore at them both. "Enough High Clan mumbo-jumbo. What do Lestrange and the Malfoy have to do with this?"  
  
Llyndas turned black, black, fathomless Welsh eyes on them. "I have told you the Minister's statement. Caius Draconis Malfoy, the new Lord of High Clan Malfoy, wishes to make it clear that the killings are only against individuals and not their respective Clans - the Malfoy have vengeance feud only with the villains who killed their late Lord."  
  
"Well, that's nice to know," Moody mocked. "And what about the tai-pan?"  
  
The Welshman looked blank. "What does the Lord of the de Sauvigny have to do with this?"  
  
Dane hissed in annoyance. "What of Lucien Malfoy?"  
  
Those black, black eyes were filled with ancient knowledge and truths. "He does what he must. As, in the end, do we all." He smiled gently. "Leave it alone. Just leave be."  
  
Moody drew himself up, sputtering. "If you think for one moment..." Dane held up a hand, cutting him off in mid-flow.  
  
"No, sir. He's right." He abandoned years of dedication to the laws of normal society. "Leave be. There's ancient right on their side - and if we go any further, we'll meet with nothing but blank faces and High Clan eyes."  
  
"Do you think I care about that?" Moody demanded.  
  
Dane smiled almost sadly. "No, sir. But two and a half thousand years of tradition and power are against us. We cannot challenge the Malfoy over this - they are too much in the right..."  
  
******************  
  
It seemed as if Moody would come around, when one last interruption occurred. Ben Greyson had been found dead in his rooms in the Ministry building. No, not another execution like these - apparent suicide. There was no trace of magic, no trace of coercion, no evidence that any foul play had taken place. No evidence that Greyson, who had caused them all so much trouble, had done anything but slit his own wrists in the shower. The angle of the cuts was consistent for that of a right-handed man, lying down in the bath, there were no bruises on his body or defensive wounds. All the blood had, quite conveniently been washed away by the running water...  
  
There was no suicide note, but the Dark Mark on his forearms had been damning enough. So Greyson had been a Death Eater, working towards bringing the House and the economy down, and perhaps even eventually preparing the way for his Lord in America. It would have been all too plausible, if it hadn't been for his pricking instincts, and for the fact that he had, indeed, recognized Greyson's wife, and remembered where he had last seen her.  
  
It was too elegant. It was too neatly designed to encourage a cover-up and a deep burial in the darkest, oldest graveyard for incendiary files. And it freed the woman who used to be Kate Evans and her son, who bore such a strong resemblance to his real father... Luc Malfoy, who did what he must, who killed for vengeance and for face, for duty and for protection - and had also stepped over the line of what even the ancient Law would allow, and had killed out of desire.  
  
If it could be proved, it would destroy everything Luc had ever worked for. So to take that kind of risk would be madness, wouldn't it? And quite uncharacteristic of the man Dane knew. That was a definite reason that should have pushed Luc out of suspicion - if Dane hadn't known just how much Luc had loved Kate...and just how far the man would go for those he loved.  
  
Of course he had done this.  
  
But Dane, who had never had anything even remotely approaching what Luc and Kate had shared, who had seen how devastated the tai-pan had been when she 'died', and who had been heartily wishing he could kill Greyson himself, found himself bowing to American pressure and agreeing to cover the 'unfortunate incident' up, to forget it ever happened, and to blame it on a lingering wound received heroically, trying to save Lucius Malfoy from those who would try to take him away...  
  
Some things were better left alone.  
  
*********************************  
  
Kate stood at the window, looking towards the land she had only ever seen with her own eyes once, and the man who had introduced it to her. Twenty-five centuries it had been protected and supported by the Malfoy - they would do anything to see it safe. Whatever the price, it would be paid. Whatever the need, it would be fulfilled. No hesitation, no questions, no regrets. That was the strength and the curse of the Malfoy - their ties to the land and their duties and their obligations. Their responsibility.  
  
She had sensed it in them, even as a first year, even on her first night as a mudblood in a completely aristocratic house. She hadn't known then why she'd been put in Slytherin - all she'd known was that her fellow dormmates were all watching her with blank, calculating eyes, even the ones that looked like they could be more than just cruel bitches. She'd known that if she didn't get some kind of protector, some kind of authority to back up her presence and the need for her continued presence, she would be torn apart. Perhaps not physically, but they would certainly try to break her spirit. She knew they were more than capable.  
  
She'd picked the most powerful figure in first year - well, not the most powerful, because she knew, even then, that Lucius Malfoy was not for her - but certainly his right hand. The younger brother. The bastard. Luc. Less bound than Lucius by duty and tradition, perhaps a little more flexible and reckless, an easier mark but paradoxically more ruthless in his strength of will and determination, he'd had no land and no people to bond to and to make a Covenant with. He had nothing to give life meaning, except to take over a House who didn't acknowledge him, to rule a family who wanted no part of him, at the moment.  
  
That had been a goal - a very long term goal. She'd given him a purpose, something to live for beyond ambition and his ultimate goal. Uneasy alliance had turned to friendship, friendship had become love, and love might have become something else, if it hadn't been brutally cut off in mid-flower.  
  
They had both changed since then, in so many ways - they were older and more cynical, less willing to trust in fate but more than ever aware of its power. Luc had become a man - a powerful, sophisticated, capable and potentially dangerous man who had learned to love his family and to find friendship with Gryffindors and muggle lovers. His eyes were darker, more experienced, and any trace of naivete or innocence had been burned out long ago. He was an alpha male in his prime now, as opposed to the youth he had been at seventeen.  
  
And she - she was older, and she had learned to compromise, to accept what she could get rather than aiming for the moon. She'd married a man she hadn't loved and had lived a life she hated for fifteen years, all her happiest moments revolving around her son, who had, from the very first, been focused on his father rather than on her. She had been willing to fight for her son, but not for herself. She'd learned to survive in the real world - not the High Clan of her school days and not the muggle world of her childhood - and the years had left their mark in her cool acceptance of what couldn't be changed and in her ability to endure.  
  
They were both of them no longer the same people - and the relationship, the bond, no longer felt as comfortable, or as right, as it had back then. She could no longer read him like a book and he could no longer discern her emotions with a glance. They couldn't anticipate each other anymore, and it hurt more than she liked to admit. She'd said nothing yet. But she'd let it show, for the merest moment, the one and only time he'd met her eyes since they'd seen each other in the hearing room. He'd looked away. He couldn't face her - couldn't look at her and remember what they had once had, perhaps didn't want to remember it.  
  
She knew he didn't remember the night Bran was conceived. The one night she'd dared to come back, in secret, to Britain, to see her sister who had just found out she was pregnant. She'd come home one last time before she married Ben and committed herself to life in America, and she'd thought it would be safe, coming back for one night - slip in, and then slip out with no one the wiser. It hadn't been quite that easy.  
  
She'd been taken by Death Eaters, on her way home - just for the one hellish, seemingly unending night. And she'd been given to Luc - an act of blind chance, or perhaps even a double-edged apology from Fate, belated though it was. He hadn't recognized her, he'd been so high on dranath and muggle spirits, and nor had anyone else...but she'd known him immediately. And it had broken her heart.  
  
One night. One guilt-ridden, hurried and perfunctory coupling to satisfy the watchers. And then it was done.  
  
She went back to America, married Ben, employed a whore's trick she had learned of in whispers in the Slytherin dormitory, and promptly delivered Brandon, approximately nine months after her wedding. And after she'd done her duty, she'd turned a cold shoulder to her husband and turned all of her attention towards her son.  
  
She didn't know what would happen now. But what would come, would come, and it would be soon. She could feel it in her bones.  
  
***************************************  
  
At Hogwarts, the students were sitting down to a leisurely Sunday morning breakfast, oblivious of the momentous events outside the school and of the shifting power balances. Only the Slytherin table, most of whom had been aware of the plot against Lucius Malfoy, showed the slightest hint of tension - and that was well hidden. They were worried, oh yes, but damned if they were going to show it.  
  
Minerva McGonagall, who probably knew less about what was going on than the Slytherin students, was nevertheless very worried. Something was wrong, she could sense it. And it had something to do with the owls that had arrived last night at dusk. As she watched, the owls came in again - letters were delivered to Pansy Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle, looking lost without Malfoy, received matching letters, as did Nott and Bulstrode and others...official Ministry letters, by the look of them.  
  
They showed no reaction. Absolutely nothing. And that was what told her something was very, very wrong. Before her eyes, they pulled a Mask of impassiveness over their features and shut everything in.  
  
And because she was focused on watching the Slytherin table, she didn't see the owls delivered to the students at other tables, from other Houses. But then, Gryffindors never did.  
  
*****************************************


	20. Resolutions

Final Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. I don't own the ardeur. I don't own the concept of the 'tai-pan'. I don't own dranath. I do own all the original characters. Don't sue me.

  
CHAPTER 20 - RESOLUTIONS  
  


  
He remembered his eleventh birthday - an eventful, fateful day that had, for better or for worse, shaped the rest of his life. His first trip to Diagon Alley, his first venture out of the High Clan and into the 'real' world...the first time he had ever made a friend - although, in truth, it was more of a forced alliance. His father had been quick to take advantage of the opportunity fate and a little manipulation had handed him on a silver platter, had seized the chance to make allies, albeit reluctant ones, out of the two Malfoy brothers.  
  
Intense, charismatic, powerful Lucius who would one day be a great Clan Lord, and patient, elusive Lucien, who, unbound by any convention or tradition, all but burned with the force of his personality...and of his ambition. And then there was Severus himself - awkward among people he did not know, with a pronounced tendency for his own company and a fully developed, acerbic tongue and intellect - who had never before had a companion he could trust and rely on. He wasn't sure that he could trust and rely on these two, either, but their company was amusing and they could keep up with his thoughts. It was enough, for now.  
  
As they grew older they grew closer in friendship and banter, but further apart in trust, as their fathers circled closer and closer to the confrontation they all knew would come, eventually. Their paths diverted somewhat, as Lucius learned more of his eventual role of Clan Lord and Luc, wrapped up in Kate, shaped himself into an acceptable candidate for the seat of tai-pan. Severus, eldest son of the Lord of Clan Snape, had nevertheless never been trained to be Clan Lord - he had been reared carefully to become the Dark Lord's perfect weapon - silent, subtle, and deadly, and utterly, totally loyal. The Brothers Malfoy would never be completely loyal to the Dark Lord alone - they would always be, first and foremost, children of Clan Malfoy.  
  
But the friendship remained, and was deepened by sex and blood and magic into an unbreakable bond, tested by Kate's death, by their fathers' deaths, by their years in the Death Eaters, by Severus' treachery, by all their lies, and by the long, long years since...tested, but never broken.  
  
Until now.  
  
They had always been three, even among the rest of their peers. Luc and Lucius and Severus, a smaller group within the larger group of High Clan boys they had all grown up and gone to school with. Unsure first years, ambitious second years, dominant third years; from fourth year onwards Luc and Lucius and Severus, along with Rayden Lestrange and Brandon Avery, Shan Andahni and Dirk Courtney had called themselves the Lords of Slytherin and had controlled their House with an iron fist.  
  
Little had changed since then. In the dark, shadowed years when they'd been Death Eaters, they had been a trio - Lucius the strategist, the guiding hand, Luc the assassin, the killing blade, and Snape, the Potions Master, the subtle, poisoned, shadowy Inquisitor...  
  
Afterwards they covered for each other - lying, denying any connection to or any knowledge of Death Eater activity - showing the blank faces of High Clan silence...and suffering for it, in Snape's case. Luc and Lucius had gone on to better things, to more money and power and respect, and Snape had remained teaching at Hogwarts, locked in the dungeons with his own guilt and self-disgust, which not even his two companions had ever managed to dispel. He didn't resent them. He had never wanted power, had never wanted money, respect or love. He had only ever hungered for knowledge - he hadn't been raised to be Clan Lord.  
  
And that was the fundamental difference between he and his two companions. That was why he hadn't been able to kill Lucius.  
He didn't believe in the greater good, if it meant that Lucius had to die. In his years as a spy he had had to make many terrible decisions, most of them between two evils, but he had never gotten used to the feeling, had never calmly accepted the outcome, or the price. Every single decision he had had to make weighed on his conscience. Every night he remembered their faces, their names, in a kind of self-imposed penance - as if he had to remember, because they had died for him, because of him.  
  
He knew he would see Lucius' face until he died, see the desperation in the eyes that had always been calm and confident, hear the helpless rage and the cry in his voice, relive time and time again the terrible moment when he realized that his cowardice had forced Draco to patricide...and know with awful certainty that, given the choice again, he would still refuse to lift his hand against his oldest friend... Inconceivable sins, both of the alternatives. In the end, he had chosen the road he thought to be the lesser of two evils, and in considering not the consequences but the action itself, he thought as an individual man, not as the Clan Lord he had never been trained to be.  
  
Or perhaps Dumbledore's Gryffindoric thinking was rubbing off on him.  
  
He knelt, meditating, on the stone cold floor of the Great Hall in the Castle, head bowed and hand resting on Lucius' cold, lifeless one, and thought of what he could have done differently the day before. Pragmatic Slytherin thought dictated that what was done was done, all that remained were the consequences. But private, personal grief and guilt couldn't be dismissed so practically.  
  
He spoke, his velvet voice soft and quiet, little more than a deep murmur of sound to the silent observer watching from the doorway. A prayer. A last farewell. A plea for forgiveness. Luc couldn't tell - but he had the feeling it had been private, and meant for no ears but Snape's and Lucius', and perhaps the Lady's. And then Snape turned around, and all sense of prayer, of respect was gone. Only wariness remained - and an overwhelming fatigue and grief that mirrored Luc's own emotions exactly.  
Luc was too tired to be Clan Lord right now...and Snape was too heartsore to even try to mask his emotional turmoil. Luc would see it, no matter how impassive he kept his face and voice.  
  
Luc sighed. "What would you have me say, Sev? I am not Dumbledore, to have comforting words for every occasion...I don't believe in redemption or in second chances. I'm a Slytherin, an assassin, a murderer and a kinslayer...and what's done is done."  
  
Snape closed his eyes, in denial, or perhaps in desperate tiredness. What's done is done, and nothing can change it - so ride out the consequences as best you can...  
  
"And what do we have left, now that Lucius is gone? Twisted intimacy? Shared experiences and companionship? Old memories of campaigns long forgotten..." Luc's voice, hollow with fatigue, still managed to cut in its bitter mockery. "It sufficed us before, but now the memory of what we once had is no longer enough..."  
  
"We shall have to find something new," Snape said, eyes still closed, still kneeling.  
  
Luc only laughed bitterly. "I don't know that I have the patience anymore. Or even the will...I'm so tired, Sev - so tired of being invulnerable...so tired of carrying it all on my own."  
  
Severus smiled, a smile full of laughing mockery and sardonic amusement, as he had once smiled before all their lives had taken such dark turns. It was no more than a ghost of what it had once been, but at least it was genuine...and so few things in this life were genuine anymore. 

"I don't think you'll have to walk alone anymore, Luc..." Luc looked at him blandly, and Snape's lips curved even further. "If you play your cards right..." he raised a significant eyebrow.  
  
Luc waved his hand lazily, dismissing the notion. "Her whole world is centred in her son, and he dislikes me enough already. When he finds out about Greyson..."  
  
"He is Slytherin, underneath all his father's foolishness. He will understand one day, and if he doesn't, Draco will enlighten him."  
  
Luc turned the subject, unwilling to think of Kate right now. "And speaking of Draco..." he looked at Snape enquiringly.  
  
"He is upset," mused Snape, "And understandably so. But he is resilient - he'll survive, and even grow stronger..."  
  
"He understands the necessity," Luc came further into the room and sat down next to the other man. "In his head, in his mind he understands. But in his heart...?" He looked somewhat blankly at Lucius' bier, at the man Draco would one day almost mirror. "In his heart he thinks it patricide."  
  
Snape let out his breath in a long, hissing sigh. "That is something only he can overcome. We can provide support, but ultimately, he must forgive himself."  
  
"Perhaps," said Luc, "perhaps revenge would give him some peace?"  
  
Snape chose not to misunderstand. "Dumbledore will welcome him into the Order." Luc looked distinctly cynical, and Snape smiled sourly. "We need all the help we can get, even if it is from a Malfoy..." He looked speculatively at Luc.  
  
Luc didn't even blink an eye. "No."  
  
Snape laughed. "I didn't think so..." His laughter drew an answering, almost reluctant smile from Luc, who allowed himself, finally, to relax for the first time in an age. "But I had to try."  
  
When they looked into each other's eyes for the first time that night, echoes of the past and images of the present merged in their memories, in their hearts. It could never be the same - but perhaps, without the secrets, with all the shadows laid out in the open where both could see, it could be better.  
  
************************************  
  
The Slytherin common room was shadowed and mysterious, richly and elegantly furnished, every surface and texture designed to please the senses of aristocratic, jaded connoisseurs...it was also, at the moment, a council chamber for the students whose relatives had been so efficiently eliminated last night. There were at least ten main participants - others, of lower position in the Clan or Slytherin hierarchy, had brought their grievances to a higher ranked representative, who would present it with their own. It was rare to see so many Clans banded together in a common cause - that is, a common enemy - but all agreed that these were extraordinary circumstances, calling for extraordinary actions.  
  
The Malfoy had gone too far, this time, and had acted too publicly against too many Clans. It was a breathtaking show of arrogance, and it was the first warning that Luc Malfoy, as proxy for his newly elevated nephew, meant business. The High Clan Slytherin students, and those from other Houses who were involved in this mess, were split into two camps - for and against the Malfoy. There was no middle ground, not in this. Luc had forced the issue into the light, where it could not be ignored, and had created a situation almost alien to most Slytherins.  
  
There were only two sides - black, and white. No neutrality, no hedging of bets. It struck too close to the heart of everything the High Clan was, and everything it could be in the future. The destruction of House Malfoy. Yes, or no. It was as simple as that.  
  
They had all gotten word from home, after the extraordinary events of last night had raced through the High Clan grapevine, letters containing guidance, advice or orders about how to deal with the situation - how to act towards Draco, how to react to their relatives' deaths... And it had come to this. A council, as their parents and elders held a council, to determine whether or not to declare vendetta against House Malfoy. Draco had given them a graceful out with his declaration of amnesty, that vengeance had only been taken against the individual, not the Clan...but the vengeance in itself had been a massive insult and loss of face.  
  
In the end, rather than personal feelings, it would come down to calculation, as everything always did...how strong were the Malfoy, and how strong were the Clans who would declare vendetta against them. (Who would declare vendetta?)  
  
Houses Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, Wilkes, Nott, Bulstrode, McNair, Flint and some four others had lost relatives to Luc's vengeance. Every single one of them was joined in some form of allegiance or treaty or blood to other Houses, who were in turn tied to more...combined, they amassed a considerable amount of money and power. Besides, they had the Dark Lord on their side.  
  
Ranged with the Malfoy were the de Sauvigny, Houses Avery and Andahni and Courtney and Lestrange, and all their various subsidiaries and connections...  
  
It would tear the High Clan apart.  
  
Diabolical Voldemort, to create a plan with such poisonous side-effects even though the original goal had not been met...they thought that he didn't completely understand the High Clan - Blaise Zabini thought that the Dark Lord understood them only too well. He was a younger son, himself, and glad of it - he didn't have to face the monumental decision the others did. No one in his family had been killed - but that only meant his father had had the sense not to move openly against the Malfoy, or that he had been detained by his job in the Ministry.  
  
But Vincent and Gregory, Pansy and Millicent, all the others who had lost blood relatives - they would have to decide how to react towards the Malfoy now...how to treat him at school, whether or not to accept his justice and his amnesty. They weren't thinking of Draco, of the boy they had all more or less grown up with, they were thinking of the Malfoy. No one knew Draco. They knew Lucius' son, the Heir, and they knew him now as the Malfoy...but no one knew the individual, except perhaps Nick de Sauvigny, or his cousin Marc. They were part of the very, very private inner circle that Draco had guarded jealously all his life - not even Crabbe or Goyle, his bodyguards, his watchdogs, or Pansy Parkinson, his...occasional sleeping partner...had ever managed to see the real Draco.  
  
Blaise made no claims to knowing him, either. Thus it was easy to classify him as a Clan, as an entity, as an institution rather than an individual.  
  
"So," said Pansy, who was far more intelligent than most people thought, "what have we decided? Do we take the amnesty and lose all further chance for vengeance, or do we declare against the Malfoy?"  
  
"The Malfoy have already shown their hand," said Quintus Nott. "They defied the Dark Lord - if we support the Malfoy, we too stand against Voldemort."  
  
A soft shudder ran through the room - no one there wished to openly defy the Dark Lord...although no doubt there were more than a few who wished they could do it secretly, without fear of risk. Now that the Malfoy and the de Sauvigny had thrown their weight against them...it just might tip the balance.  
  
Blaise spoke up. "Accepting the amnesty doesn't mean we support them. It just means that we acknowledge he had the right to his vengeance."  
  
"There is no vengeance available to sons of traitors." Goyle snarled dangerously - his and Crabbe's association with the Malfoy could have pulled them down with Lucius, if their parents hadn't been so enthusiastic in denouncing him.  
  
'Traitors against whom?" dared Alcott, whose family had never actually made a commitment to Voldemort. "Is Voldemort the king, to hold such absolute power?" Blaise concealed a wince - words like that could mark a whole family for destruction.  
  
But he did have a point. "Can we succeed if we do move against them? The financial and political power behind the Malfoy is...formidable..." Pansy always asked the practical questions.  
  
"Combined, we have power too," said Crabbe, who would do everything he could, supported or not, to bring Draco down.  
  
"But is it enough?" asked Millicent doubtfully. "They've joined with the Ministry and Dumbledore, and while the Ministry may be incompetent, you may be sure the Malfoy are not. They could revitalize the resistance, make it into a truly dangerous weapon."  
  
"They've joined with the Ministry anyway, Millicent," Blaise said softly. "Nothing will change that. But if we don't take this amnesty, they will come after us personally...and they will destroy us. One by one..."  
  
Pansy looked thoughtful. "Are you saying take the amnesty now, and go after them anyway?" There was an almost stunned silence. Go back on a vow of amnesty?  
  
"We will have to come against them anyway," he spoke, his words dropping into the silence like stones into a pond. "They oppose our Lord, and so must be destroyed - but if we accept the amnesty, we will be free to give everything we have to the Dark Lord, rather than divert resources towards protecting ourselves..."  
  
"That means they, too, will not have to divide their resources - it will bring their undivided attention down on the Cause." Flint was a hardcore, fanatical supporter of the Cause. Blaise didn't understand how he could be so naïve.  
  
"Better they destroy the Cause than us. If they come after us, we will all die. At least some of us may survive if the Lord should fall." And that was very close to treason - but they all had priorities. And as much as he believed in the Cause, he believed even more in House Zabini.  
  
There was much more debate, especially because of Crabbe and Goyle's hotheaded hatred, because the Malfoy were so hated, but so feared - they were the First, the very Highest of the High Clan...it was hard, almost unthinkable, to even imagine a world where the Malfoy didn't dominate. But that was what they were thinking now. Eventually, cooler thought and cold-blooded reason prevailed, and they reached a consensus. Accept the amnesty now, and do the best they could to destroy the Malfoy through the Cause. That way, they could bring their combined strength to bear - and they could do it under the anonymity of Death Eater cloaks and masks.  
  
Wait, watch, and be patient. Their time would come.  
  
*********************************  
  
Luc found Draco outside, watching the preparations for Lucius' funeral pyre, which would be held in the Grove later that night. There was no indication at all that Draco was upset in any way, or any hint of the mixture of guilt, pain, grief and hatred that was seething just below the surface of his composure. He was utterly impassive - his movements normal, his eyes clear and unshadowed, his posture as unconsciously arrogant as always, with a hint of the strength he was only just beginning to find within himself.  
  
Luc felt a fierce pang of pride. This, this was a Lord worth following.  
  
Draco looked at him then, and smiled faintly. "Uncle. Have you come to check on me?"  
  
Luc only smiled. "Was it necessary?"  
  
"No," he said, confidently with no defiance or sullenness. "Everything is under control." A slight trace of bitterness, there - but Luc had expected it. Soon the shock and the numbness would pass, and Draco would look for someone to blame, someone to lash out at. Luc would prefer Draco to direct that anger towards Voldemort, but he knew there was a very good chance the new Lord would blame Luc himself. After all, he was a safe target, accessible, and Draco knew exactly how and where to draw blood. It was going to be a difficult time, until his nephew learned to forgive himself and understand his actions. Hence the reason for his coming out here.  
  
"Professor Snape will make you an offer, afterwards," he said neutrally, looking at the workmen, not at Draco.  
  
He could feel Draco's quizzical eyes on him. "The Order of the Phoenix? Officially sanctioned revenge?"  
  
Luc turned to look back at him, and nodded.  
  
"Would you have accepted that offer, when it was made to you?"  
  
Luc smiled ruefully. "No. But I was seventeen, and I thought I knew everything. I thought I could handle it all on my own, without any self- righteous interference from Gryffindors and the fools who followed them."  
  
"And now?"  
  
Luc sighed and closed his eyes. "If I could do it all again...I wouldn't change anything." He paused and looked at Draco, dropping all the masks and defences. "I would have done anything, Draco. Anything. I killed my own flesh and blood, my cousins, my stepfather...my half-brother. And I did it, not for any sacred, justifiable motive like the good of the Clan - I did it all out of ambition and my hunger for power."  
  
"I won't join with a sacred Order like the Phoenix with a blemish like that on my soul." He smiled almost gently.  
  
"Snape is part of it," Draco pointed out reasonably.  
  
"Snape regrets everything he did. I don't." He fixed his eyes on Draco's. "My actions, my choices, are nothing at all like yours. I voluntarily chose my path, accepted the price I would pay, and I will live with it all my life. But you...Lucius' death was thrust upon you, and you had no choice. No choice at all, and the most sacred of reasons." He put his hand on Draco's shoulder and squeezed. "There was no sin in your actions, Draco. No sin, and no blame. If you would blame anyone at all, blame Voldemort."  
  
"So you are pushing me into revenge, to make me feel better. Into the Order of the Phoenix, to improve my public image."  
  
"And into action, so that we can finish this once and for all." He smiled, a small, feral smile. "You do know that once the Clans have accepted your amnesty, and they will, if they have any brains, they will throw everything they have against us?"  
  
"I know."  
  
"Then we must be prepared, yes? We will need all the friends we can get."  
  
Draco looked at him expressionlessly for a long, long time, and then grinned suddenly, gloriously. "Very well, then," he laughed. "I'll do it. I'll even shake hands with Potter, if I have to." He held up a warning hand. "On one condition."  
  
Luc raised a skeptical eyebrow.  
  
"If I have to make friends with Potter," Draco said mock-seriously, "you have to resolve this situation with Kate."  
  
Luc's face blanked.  
  
"Seriously, uncle, you have not even looked at her once. You have to come to some sort of conclusion, otherwise you will be distracted, and then you will make mistakes. And I can't afford to have a chief advisor who makes mistakes." He laughed into Luc's carefully neutral eyes. "And while you're at it, try to find some common ground with Brandon, before he kills you, hmmm?"  
  
"Because you can't afford to have a dead chief advisor?" Luc's voice was acidic, but he was amused. He knew Draco was right - he just didn't like it.  
  
"Exactly." He waved an imperious hand. "Now go."  
  
Luc's grey eyes looked limpidly at the Lord of High Clan Malfoy. Then, solemnly, he put his hand on his heart and bowed, a younger scion to his Lord.  
  
"As you will it, Lord, so shall it be." And then he walked away, aware that behind him, Draco was smiling for the first time in what seemed like an age.  
  
*************************************  
  
She saw him coming. She would recognize him anywhere, by the confidence in his walk, by the instinctive knowledge that still survived, deep in the depths of her soul, a primitive recognition of her mate, of the only one who would ever match her in every way. And she knew why he was coming, too. A necessary confrontation, yes, but one that she would much rather have avoided right now...or ever. She didn't want to look at him, to talk to him, to be close to him, and know that he was a murderer and an assassin and everything else she had been raised to despise, and that he didn't regret a thing.  
  
She wanted him to remain, in her mind, the youth on the threshold of manhood, who could still have turned away from the dark, and who had burned with such unrestrained light. But that was impossible now. And she would just have to face him, just as he would have to face her. She knew they were both equally reluctant, and most probably for the exact same reason. They were afraid of what they might find. They were afraid the attraction, the passion, the bond, would be just as strong as it had ever been...only now they were old enough and experienced enough to know just how badly it could hurt them. They couldn't stay together, and they couldn't walk away. No wonder the old Malfoy had tried their hardest to avoid soul bonds.  
  
And then, there was Brandon. Idealistic, innocent Brandon, who had come up hard against reality this year...and had learned that the man responsible for his introduction to the dark side was in fact his real father. Quite a shock. Rather like that scene at the end of that muggle film the Empire Strikes Back...Kate only hoped Brandon wouldn't throw himself off the metaphorical gantry. Unlike Skywalker, there would be no one to rescue him when he came out the other end.  
  
"Hello, Kate," came that voice again, familiar yet rich with experiences she hadn't shared, emotions she hadn't known with him.  
  
She raised her green eyes, impassive, as he had taught her, to his grey ones. Neither could read the other now, she realized...and didn't know whether that was good or bad. "Why now, Luc?" Why have this discussion now, so soon after he had killer her husband, after he had lost his brother, after the world had shifted and had not yet been realigned.  
  
He smiled, an empty smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I can't keep watching my back, waiting for Brandon to come after me...I was hoping you could talk to him."  
  
Kate said nothing. That had not been the real reason.  
  
Spurred by her silence, Luc continued on, still composed, still amused and mocking. "Draco asked for a good faith gesture before he agreed to shake hands with Harry Potter. This was what he asked for. I think he's matchmaking."  
  


Still, she kept silent. They were getting closer, but it was not the whole truth. For the first time, Luc became defensive. "This...situation is hard on both of us. We must resolve it."  
  
She raised an eyebrow.  
  
He hissed, made a frustrated, instantly aborted chopping gesture. "Ach, Kate, what would you have me say? I can't sleep, I can't concentrate, I can't meditate because I can feel you all around me, hear your voice, smell your perfume, feel your touch? And it's still not enough, not nearly enough - there's an empty hole in my soul where you used to be, and it's killing me to have you near and not be able to touch you? Is that what you want? Is that what you wanted to hear?"  
  
She blinked. "You know that I feel the same thing, Luc. But it can't be."  
  
He snarled viciously, "Don't you think I don't know that?" and his hand swung out uncontrollably, knocking over a priceless Dresden vase, sending it to the ground with a damning, echoing crash. Abruptly, he flinched, ran a hand through his thick, black hair and visibly pulled himself back under control. "We can't go back to what we had. But can't we start again, and see what can be?"  
  
She took her time answering, and saw his control actually waver, saw for the merest instant the naked frustration and desire in his eyes. And then he was impassive again. "I have a son," she said softly, calmly. "And he must come before everything else."  
  
He nodded. "I have two nephews, both of them Clan Lords. The Malfoy, and the de Sauvigny, must come first."  
  
"If Brandon doesn't accept you," she said implacably, "then it is over, Luc. No second chances."  
  
He looked at her blankly, and then slid his eyes away. She stood up, slid a hand along his chin and turned his gaze back towards her. She sucked in a breath and almost flinched. Everything in his eyes when he looked at Draco, at Marc, was redoubled in his eyes as he thought of Brandon, his one and only begotten son...pride, pleased satisfaction, a fierce, fierce protectiveness...and a love so deep and so wide he pushed it so far down no one would ever, ever see it...he blinked, but when he opened his eyes again, it was still there. He didn't even try to hide it.  
  
He opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed his eyes and said nothing. He looked at her again, so solemnly, so openly, and said, "So be it."  
  
It was her time to hide her eyes. Then, taking her courage and her heart in both hands, she stood up on her tiptoes and laid a soft, chaste kiss on his cheek, breathing in the beloved familiar scent she had craved for so long. He made an inarticulate sound, and his arms came around her, hugging her almost too tightly, crushing her before he loosened his grip. He lay his cheek on the top of her head, closed his eyes, and felt her hug him back, as she had not done for twenty years and more, felt the old, old bonds begin to renew, felt the comfort flow from her to him and him to her.  
  
And it was enough. For now, it was enough.  
  
***************************************  
  
Marc, Nick and Brandon were listening at the door, eavesdropping on Luc and Kate's discussion. Normally they wouldn't have dared eavesdrop on their uncle Luc, but this was such an important conversation...and Luc was so involved, and so confident of the security at the Castle, that he had forgotten to employ his usual security measures. They peeked through the keyhole, watching the two long lost lovers hug, and Nick and Marc exchanged a skeptical look. Brandon just looked stunned - that was his mother, for God's sake! What was she doing hugging Luc Malfoy? And so soon after his father's...no, her husband's death. The two de Sauvigny cousins had told him the story, but he still had trouble accepting it.  
  
He just didn't like Luc. Part of that was suspicion, he'd heard so many stories about the tai-pan, about his ruthlessness, but another part was fear. His fat- no, Benjamin had been a genial man, amiable and friendly - Bran had been able to manipulate him quite easily. But Luc...Luc was the quintessential alpha male - dominant, always in control, and far too intelligent for Bran's comfort. Those sardonic eyes...they gave him the shivers. And he didn't like it.  
  
Part of him was quite selfishly pleased that his mother had put him and his feelings first; the childish, self-indulgent part realized that if he chose, he could shatter their relationship, cause quite a lot of trouble......but an older, more mature Brandon, who had been formed in the time since he'd been living in Slytherin, had seen the pain it cost his mother (and yes, Luc too) to deny each other and the ties that bound them.  
  
It was true that he didn't like Luc. But that didn't mean he couldn't see what they meant to each other. That didn't mean he wasn't a little in awe of Luc, or that he hadn't wished, on occasion, that Ben was a little bit more forceful, a little bit more aristocratic...a little bit more like Luc Malfoy. To tell the truth, he wouldn't mind the thought of learning all that he could from the tai-pan himself...or of actually being a Malfoy, and High Clan...  
  
That would be cool. It would definitely be better than being Ben Greyson's son, the American stranger who should have been in Gryffindor. So perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing to see what would come of Luc and Kate's wary reunion. After all, it might not work out. They might decide to break up and go their different ways. It couldn't hurt to try, anyway.  
  
He supposed he could give Luc a chance. Then, they would see what would happen.  
  
************************************  
  
Night came, falling over the Malfoy heartland and cloaking the land in mystery, in shadows and ambiguities. A flickering pyre still smouldered in the blackness of the Grove, illuminating the faces of all the people of the Malfoy, villagers and house elves and guests alike. Draco looked down at his right hand, at the ancient, heavy silver seal ring engraved with the three Scars of the Malfoy that Lucius had always worn, as long as he could remember. Now he wore it, the symbol of the Malfoy Lord...and it sank in for the first and last time that his father was dead, and he was never going to see him again.  
  
The blame for that lay squarely at Voldemort's feet, just as Luc had said earlier that day. And just as his uncle had advised, he turned all the fierce, ice-cold rage and hatred in his heart towards the Dark Lord...and as the flames finally consumed his father's body, he thought of revenge. He had accepted Professor Snape's offer, because Dumbledore offered vengeance cloaked in official (or at least moral) sanction...and because he knew he would have to bring the Malfoy back into the light, back into their place at the forefront and the very centre of society and the High Clan.  
  
The renewal - spiritual and social - would have to start with him. For the first time, he understood what his father had meant when he said Draco was unMarked. Draco was untouched by evil, or by society's condemnation and hatred...he could do what Lucius, or even Luc, could not - make amends. Heal any bonds of trust or tradition that their servitude under Voldemort had shattered....bring things full circle.  
  
And the renewal would have to start now. Walking over to Harry Potter, he held out his hand, as he had once done so long ago on the Hogwarts Express, and asked for alliance, or at least a truce. They shook hands, as everything and everyone he had ever loved stood witness.  
  
The Malfoy Lord threw his weight behind Dumbledore, and the battle lines were drawn in the sand.  
  
Let Voldemort come. They would be ready.  
  
**********************************************  
  
A small, secretive smile played over Luc's lips as he felt a breath of wind tease his face, his hair, as Lucius had once done in bed. "Don't worry, brother", he whispered silently to the Wind, his eyes dark and unreadable, his face alternately shadowed and illuminated as the fire flickered, as he watched Draco come into his own. "By my blood and the blood of my ancestors...the Malfoy will prevail."  
  
***************************************  
  
THE END  
  
****************************************


End file.
